CIHM 
Microfiche 
Series 
(Monographs) 


ICMH 

Collection  de 
microfiches 
(monographies) 


Canadian  InatltuM  for  Historical  MIcrorsproductlons  /  Inatitut  Canadian  da  mlcroraproductlona  hiatoriquaa 


1995 


Twiinical  and  Biblioffraphic  NoMs  /  Nom  ttchniqiws  flt  biblioflriphiqiMs 


Trw  Inslituu  h«  an«fnpMd  to  obuin  ih«  tMSI  orisinal 
copy  anilaBI*  lor  tilmln|.  Fulurn  of  ihii  copy  which 
iruy  IM  l>iWia«r<|itiic<Ily  unMiM.  which  nuy  Jur  <ny 
ol  Ihc  iiiMiiit  HI  the  ii|HixluctK>n,  or  which  may 
lignificintly  chjn«i  Um  ikimI  method  of  tilming,  art 
chMlMd  below. 


D 


Colourad  cov«ri/ 
Cou««riur«  da  coulttur 

Coywruira  ■ndommasM 


□  Covfff  luxond  and/or  lamiiutad/ 
Counrtur*  rssuurM  «c/chi  palliculM 


D 
D 


CoMf  litl*  masing/ 

titt*  di  60uv«rtur«  fnanqiM 


CoIowmI  nwpt/ 

Caitn  flvographiquM  an  cowlwr 

CoUHirvd  ink  (i.«.  oUwr  than  blu«  or  black)/ 
Enat  dt  coulaur  (i.t.  auU«  qut  Wtut  ou  noirt) 


0Colourad  plaui  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  at/ou  illustrations  an  coulaur 


□  Bound  with  ( 
Ralia  avac  d'< 


othar  matarial/ 
auuas  documants 


□  Ti«ht  bindinfl  may  causa  shadows  of  distortion 
along  intarior  margin/ 


La  raliura  sarraa  paut  causar  da  I'ombra  ou  da  la 
distortion  la  long  dt  la  marga  intariaura 


D 


Blank  laavas  addad  during  rtsloration  may  a 
within  thauxt  Whanavar  possiMt.  thata  hawa 
baan  omitlad  from  filming/ 
II  sa  paut  qua  caruinas  pagas  blanchas  aioutoas 
tors  d'una  rasuuration  apparaissant  dans  la  taxia , 
mais,  lorsqua  cala  auit  possiblt.  c«  pagas  n'ont 
pas  ata  f  ilmaas. 


L'Institut  a  microfilmi  la  maillaur  axamplaira  qu'il 
lui  a  ata  possibia  da  sa  procurtr.  Las  details  da  cat 
txtmplaira  qui  wnt  paut^tra  uniquas  du  point  da  »ua 
bibliographiqua,  qui  pau**nt  moditiar  una  imaga 
raproduita,  ou  qui  pauvant  axigar  una  modification 
dans  la  mathoda  itormala  da  f  ilmaga  tont  indiquos 
ci-dasious. 

□  Coloured  pagas/ 
Pagas  da  coulaur 

□  Pagtt  damagad/ 
Pagas  andommagiii 

□  Pagas  rastorad  and/or  laminatad/ 
Pagai  ratcauraas  tt/o«i  palliculaas 


[BZ. 


discolourad,  stainod  or  foxod/ 
daceloraas,  tachotaas  ou  piquias 


□  Pagas  datachad/ 
Pagas  ditachaas 

QShowthrough/ 
Transparence 


□  Quality  of 
Qualitaini 


print  varias/ 
irtagala  dt  Timprassion 


□  Continuous  pagination/ 
Pagination  continue 

□  Includes  index  (as)/ 
Comprand  un  (das)  index 


Title  on  header  taken  from:/ 
La  titre  de  l'an*t*ta  provient: 


□  Title  page  of  i 
Page  de  titre  de  la  livraison 

□  Caption  of  issue/ 
Titre  de  depart  de  la  livraisen 

□  Masthead/ 
Generique  (periodiques)  de  la  livraison 


0 


Additioiul  comimnu:/  Pa9"  nholly  obscured 

CsmfflMiuun  lupplinunuirti:  l>o»sfl>l«  '«9e. 


by  tissues  have  been  refnned  to  ensure  the  beat 


Thii  item  u  filmed  at  the  leduciion  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  nx  f  ilme  au  laux  de  reduction  indique  ci-deueu<. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

ax 

2«X 

KX 

J 

*"— ' 

19V 

■■^ 

^■■■^ 

1SX 

XX 

" 

24X 

2SX 

32X 

Th«  copy  filmad  har*  ha«  baan  raproduead  thanki 
to  tha  ganaro-sity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'axamplaira  film*  fut  raproduit  grtca  I  li 
g4niroiitt  da: 

Bibliotheque  nationals  du  Canada 


Tha  iinagaa  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  baat  quality 
pouibia  eoniidaring  tha  condition  and  lagibility 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  kaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  apacificationa. 


Original  capiat  in  printad  papar  covara  ara  fllmad 
baginning  with  tha  front  covar  and  anding  on 
tha  laat  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuttratad  impraa- 
aion,  or  tha  back  covar  whan  approprlata.  All 
othar  original  copiaa  ara  filmad  baginning  on  tha 
firat  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
aion,  and  anding  on  tha  laat  paga  with  a  printad 
or  illuatratad  impraaaion. 


Tha  laat  racordad  frama  on  aach  microficha 
thall  contain  tha  lymbol  ^»  Imaaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  tha  aymbol  V  Imaaning  "END"), 
whichavar  appliaa. 

Mapt.  plataa,  charti.  ate.  may  ba  filmad  at 
diffarant  raduction  ratiot.  Thoaa  too  larga  to  ba 
antiraly  includad  in  ona  axpoaura  ara  filmad 
baginning  in  tha  uppar  laft  hand  cornar.  laft  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  at  many  framat  at 
raquirad.  Tha  following  diagrama  illuttrata  tha 
mathod: 


Las  imagat  tuivantat  ont  M  raproduitat  avac  la 
plua  grand  toin,  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nattat*  da  l'axamplaira  film*,  at  »n 
conformit*  avac  lat  conditiont  du  contrat  da 
filmaga. 

Laa  axamplalraa  origlnaux  dont  la  couvartura  »n 
papiar  aat  lmprim*a  tont  film*t  an  comman«ant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarminant  toit  par  la 
darni*ra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'imprattion  ou  d'llluttration.  loit  par  la  tacond 
plat,  talon  la  eat.  Tout  laa  autrat  axamplairat 
originaux  tont  fllmto  an  commanfant  par  la 
pramitra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaion  ou  d'llluttration  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  darnitra  paga  qui  comporta  una  taila 
amprainta. 

Un  daa  aymbolaa  tuivantt  tpparattra  tur  la 
darniira  imaga  da  chaqua  microficha.  talon  la 
cat:  la  tymbola  — *>  tignifia  "A  SUIVRE  ".  la 
tymbola  V  tignifia  "FIN". 

Lat  cartat.  planchat.  tablaaux,  ate.  pauvant  atre 
filmtt  *  dat  taux  da  rtduction  diffarents. 
Lortqua  la  documant  att  trop  grand  pour  *tfa 
raproduit  an  un  taul  clicha.  il  att  film*  *  partir 
da  I'angia  iup*riaur  gaucha.  da  gaucha  i  droite, 
at  da  haut  an  baa.  an  pranant  la  nombra 
d'imagaa  n*caaaaira.  Lat  diagrammat  tuivantt 
illuttrant  la  m*lhoda. 


1  2  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

maocon  hesoiution  iist  chadt 

(ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No,  2) 


^    APPLIED  \hMI3E 


'653   East   Main   Street 


(71b)    288-  5999  -  Fo. 


re-  -m-'M 


THE  LETTER 

■OFTHE 


J N TRACT 

BAS!(/k[NC 


^/ 


r 


/ 


"/-Inn't  you  sec   that    my  heart's    breaking,   too?' 

s^v     "V     r        V  '"   "•"  f'""*^'  ^''""^'"g  '■"  hea.l, 
saaiy.       .\o,  I  can  t  see  that." 


C'OXTK  AC'i 


i  A  );■ 

■''BUSUKKS 

Kwr'>«'    . 

•  .  >N  DON 

M'   '■< 

K^" 


"   \-    //r"1 

ill     ^^>'    ." 

r 


•  '///'.  jifeld;!.- ,11' 


^i^. 


il  /■'!!?.  %■.:' 


'Si^^fHf^^^'^  „!;^#«a. 


(•^^iii'l   yoii    SCO    tli.ii    :,iy    h.^rl  ,    Ln-iikin'     i,,n-' 
,->h^  l.,„k,.d   Inn.    in    il,o   f,,,..  <;l.».kii,«   her    h.-n.l. 
satl/y.       '.No,  I  cairi  s.r   t!i:it." 


THE  LETTER 
OF  THE  CONTRACT 


BASIL    KING 

AIITHOB  OP 

The  Itmer  SItriiu 


ILLUSTBATED 


HARPER  ft  BROTHERS  FITBLISHERS 

NEW  TOKK  AND  LONDON 

MCMXIV 


/        -.*     _^  v^  mmi,   .' 

J.  CI  vj' 


259011 


Books  bt  tbs 
AUTHOR  OF  "THE  INNER  SHRINE" 

[BASIL  KING] 
Tvu  LmTBB  o»  TBS  CoimucT.    Brd 
Th»  Wat  Hohz.     Illustrated 
Thb  Wild  Olivb.    lUuatrmted 
Thb  Inncr  Sbbims.     lUuitnted 
Tbs  SrBsrr  Called  Stbaiobt.    lU'd. 
L«T  Not  Man  Pdt  Asumdeb.    Po«t  8vo 
In  tbb  Oabobn  of  Chabitt.    Post  8vo 
Thb  Steps  or  Honob.    Post  8vo 
The  Giant's  Stbenoth.     Post  8vo 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS.  NEW  YORK 


COPVHnHT.  tS14.  T  HAWPm  *  BROTHIIIS 
IN  THB  UNITED  STATIS  OP  AMSRICA 
PUBLISNKD  AUOUST,  ISIA 


CONTENTS 

<aur. 

1.     Tbanbobbuion '"" 

n.   RnENTHmn 

HI.  RSPBOACB     ...... 

IV.  DiHGlB '     ' ** 

V.  Pbuuft. '** 

»   ....    160 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"Can't  Yod  Seb  that  Mt  Hbabt's  Bb«a«ino, 
Too?"  She  Looked  Hm  in  the  Face,  Shak- 
mo  Heb  Head,  Sadlt.    "No,  I  Can't  See 

That"    .    .    . 

„  :rotiUtptKt 

He  Tdbned  fbou  the  Gibl  to  His  Wife.  "I'm 
WiiLDJO  TO  Explain  Antthino  Yoc  Likb- 
A»  Fab  AS  I  Can" ^   ^ 

"Oh,  Chip.  Go  Awat!  I  Can't  Stand  Ant  Mobe 
-Now."  "Do  Yoo  Mean  that  You'll  See 
Me— Lateb— when  We'bb  m  London?"  .    .       •<       ijj 

Edith  was  Standino  in  the  Doobwat,  toe  Man 

Behind  Her.    "Chip,  Mb.  Ucon  Knows  We 

Met  in  England"       .    .  .... 

IM 


THE 
LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE 
CONTRACT 


TBANSGRESSION 

JL  her  coffee  ,n  her  room,  she  had  looked  in  on 
the  children  a.  she  generally  did.  instead  „" 
gong  down  to  the  drawing-room  to  write  a 
note  her  whole  life  might  have  been  different 

Jh\   '"»''"  "'^  *^«  'J"-*'-  «he  often 
^ked  herself  in  the  succeeding  years,  only  to 

would  have  happened  in  any  case.    Since  the 
;jct^^t^..I.usthavec.metoknowi::L^ 

eoul;rvrsenutvarr:r°"^'^^ 

oftheday.     The  ver^  :;Zr  oTiruLTil 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
at  one  ,  so  that  her  husband  could  post  it  as  he 
went  to  h.s  office,  gave  to  the  act  something  of 
the  force  of  fate. 

Everjthing  that  morning,  when  she  came  to 
think  of  .t,  had  something  of  the  force  of  fate 
Why.  on  entering  the  drawing-room,  hadn't  she 
gone  straight  to  her  desk,  according  to  her  in- 
tention, if  it  wasn't  that  fate  intervened?  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  she  went  to  the  oriel  window 
ookmg  down  mto  Fifth  Avenue,  with  vague 

sS  £„??•' "'"*'"•  't--oneofth7se 
small  Scotch  comer  windows  that  show  you 
both  sides  of  the  street  at  once.  It  was  so  much 
the  favorite  conning-spot  of  the  family  that  she 
advanced  to  it  from  habit. 

AjDd  yet.  if  she  had  gone  to  her  desk,  that  girl 
might  have  disappeared  before  the  lines  of  the 
note  were  pemied.    As  it  was.  the  girl  was 
there,  standmg  as  she  had  stood  on  other  occa- 
sions-three or  four,  at  least-between  the  two 
it«e  ,ron  posts  that  spaced  off  the  opening  for 
foot-passengers  into  the  Park.     She  was  looking 
up  at  the  house  in  the  way  Edith  had  noticed 
before-not  with  the  scrutiny  of  one  who  wishes 
to  see,  but  with  the  forlorn  patience  of  the 
unobtrusive  creature  hoping  to  be  se6n. 


TRANSGRESSION 
In  a  neat  gray  suit  of  the  fashion  of  1904  and 
•qmrrel  fu«,  she  was  the  more  unobtrusive  be- 
cause of  a  baokgn,und  of  light  snow.    She  was 
pathetically  unobtrusive.    Not  that  she  seemed 
poor:  Bhe  suggested,  rather,  some  one  lost  or 
daxed  or  partially  blotted  out.    People  glanced 
at  her  as  they  hurried  by.    There  were  so^ 
who  turned  and  glanced  a  second  time.    She 
might  have  been  a  person  with  a  sorrow-a  love- 
sorrow.    At  that  thought  Edith's  heart  went  out 
to  he.  m  sympathy.    She  herself  was  so  happy, 
with  a  happiness  that  had  grown  more  intense 
each  month,  each  week,  each  day.  of  her  six 
years  of  married  life,  that  it  filled  her  imagina- 
tion  with  a  blissful,  pitying  pain  to  think  that 
other  women  suffered. 

The  pity  was  sincere,  and  the  bliss  came  from 
the  knowledge  of  her  security.    She  felt  it 
wonderful  to  have  such  a  sense  of  safety  as  that 
she  experienced  m  gazing  across  the  street  at  the 
girl  s  wist  ul  face.    It  was  like  the  overpower- 
ng  thankfulness  with  which  a  man  on  a  rock 
looks  on  while  others  drown.    It  wasn't  callous- 
ness;   It  was  only  an  appreciation  of  mercies. 
She  was  genumely  sorry  for  the  giri,  if  the  girl 
needed  sorrow;    but  she  didn't  see  what  she 

8 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

could  do  to  help  her.    It  wa»  ^ell  known  that 
out  .n  that  life    '  New  York-ond  of  the  world 
mT^  "**"*"  ""^  ^^pe»tB  of  p«„ion  in 
which  hve.  were  wrecked;  but  from  them  ahe 
fier«df  was  u  surely  protected  by  her  husband's 
love  as.  in  her  warm  and  well-stored  house,  she 
was  shielded  from  hunger  and  the  storm.    She 
accepted  this  good  fortune  meekly  and  as  a 
special  blessedness;   but  she  couldn't  help  re- 
joicmg  aU  the  more  in  the  knowledge  of  her 
security. 

The  knowledge  of  her  security  gave  luxury  to 
the  sigh  with  which  she  turned  in  ihe  cou«e  of 
«  few  minutes  to  write  her  note.    The  desk 
stood  under  the  mirror  between  the  two  win- 
dows  at  the  end  of  the  small  back  drawing. 
«H)m.    The  small  back  drawing-room  projected 
w  ail  ell  from  the  larger  one  that  crossed  the 
front  of  the  house.    She  had  just  reached  the 
words,    shall  have  great  pleasure  in  accepting 
your  kind  mvitation  to-"  when  she  heard  her 
husband  s  step  on  the  stairs.    He  was  coming 
up  from  his  solitary  breakfast.    She  could  hear 
too.  the  rusUe  of  the  newspaper  in  his  hand  as  he 
ascended.  sofUy  and  tunelessly  whistling.    The 
sound  of  that  whistling,  which  generally  accom- 

A 


TRANSGRESSION 
panied  his  presence  in  the  house,  waa  more  en- 
trancing to  her  thon  the  trill  of  nightingales. 

The  loneliness  her  fancy  ascribed  to  the  girl 
over  by  the  Pork  empliasizcd  her  sense  of  pos- 
•ession.    She  raised  her  head  and  looked  into 
the  mirror.    The  miracle  of  it  struck  her  afresh, 
that  the  great,  strong  man  she  saw  entering  the 
room,  with  his  brown  velvet  house-jacket  and 
broad  shoulders  and  splendid  head,  should  be 
hers.    She  herself  waa  a  little  woman,  of  soft 
curves  and  dimpling  smiles  and  no  particular 
beauty;  and  he  had  stooped,  in  his  strength  and 
tenderness,  to  make  her  bonr  of  his  bone  and 
flesh  of  his  flesh,  as  she  had  become.    And  he 
had  become  bone  of  her  bone  and  flesh  of  her 
flesh.    She  waa  no  more  his  than  he  was  hers. 
That  was  the  great  fact.    She  was  no  longer 
content  with  the  limited  formula,  "They  twain 
shall  be  one  flesh  ";  they  twain  had  become  one 
spirit  and  one  life. 

It  was  while  asserting  this  to  herself,  not  for 
the  firt..  time,  that  she  saw  him  start.  He 
started  back  from  the  window— the  laige  cen- 
tral window-to  which  he  had  gone,  probably 
with  vague  thoughts  of  the  weather,  like  herself. 
It  was  the  manner  of  his  start  that  chiefly  at- 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
traded  her  attention.    After  drawing  back  he 
peered  forward.    It  was  an  absurd  thing  to 
thmk  of  h.m;    she  knew  that-of  him  of  all 
peopIe!-but  one  would  almost  have  said  that, 
m  h^  own  house,  he  shrank  from  being  seen. 
But  there  was  the  fact.    There  was  his  attitude 
-his  t.ptoeing-his  way  of  leaning  toward  the 
mantelpiece  at  an  angle  from  which  he  could  see 
what  was  going  on  in  the  Park  and  yet  be  pro- 
tected by  the  curtain. 

Then  it  came  to  her,  with  a  flush  that  made 
her  tingle  all  over,  that  she  was  spying  on  him. 
He  thought  her  in  the  children's  room  up-stairs. 
when  all  the  while  she  was  watching  him  in  a 
mirror.    Never  in  her  life  had  she  known  such 

bWHI    .f  T;    ^^"'''■"^  "^'^  ''-d.  she  scrib- 
bled blindly,  "dinner  on  Tuesday  evening  the 
twenty-fourth  at-"    She  was  compelled  by  an 
inner  force  she  didn't  understand  to  glance  up  at 
the  mirror  again,  but,  to  her  relief,  he  had  gone 
l^ter  she  heard  him  at  the  telephone.    To 
avoid  all  appearance  of  listening  she  went  to 
the  kitchen  to  give  her  orders  for  the  day.    On 
her  return  he  was  in  the  hall,  dressed  for  going 
out     Scanning  his  face,  she  thought  he  looked 
suddenly  care-worn. 


TRANSGRESSION 
"I've  ordered  a  motor  to  take  me  down- 
town." he  explained,  as  he  pulled  on  his  gloves 
He  generally  took  the  street-car  in  Madison 
Avenue. 

"Aren't  you  well?"  she  thought  it  permissible 
to  ask. 

"Oh  yes;  I'm  all  right." 
"Then  why—?" 

He  made  an  effort  to  be  casual:  "Well  I  just 
thought  I  would." 

She  had  decided  not  to  question  him— it  was 
a  matter  of  honor  or  pride  with  her,  she  was  not 
sure  which— but  while  giving  him  the  note  to 
post  she  ventured  to  say.  "You're  not  worried 
about  anything,  are  you?" 

"Not  in  the  least."  He  seemed  to  smother 
the  words  by  stooping  to  kiss  her  good-by. 

She  followed  him  to  the  door.  "You'd  tell 
me,  wouldn't  you,  if  you  were  worried?" 

For  the  second  time  he  stooped  and  kissed  her. 
again  smothering  the  words.  "Yes,  dear:  but 
I'm  not." 

She  stood  staring  at  the  glass  door  after  he 
had  closed  it  behind  him.  "Oh.  what  is  it?" 
she  questioned.  Within  less  than  an  hour  the 
world  had  become  peopled  with  fears,  and  all 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 
she  could  do  was  to  stare  at  the  door  through 
which  she  could  still  see  him  dimly. 

She  could  see  him  dimly,  but  plainly,  for  the 
curtam  of  patterned  filct-work  hanging  flat 
agamst  the  glass  was  almost  transparent  from 
withm  the  house,  though  impenetrable  from 
outside.    Was  it  her  imagination  that  saw  him 
look  cautiously  round  beforo  leaving  the  pro- 
tection of  the  doorway?    Was  it  her  imagina- 
tion that  watched  while  he  crossed  the  pavement 
hurriedly,  to  spring  into  the  automobile  before 
he  could  be  observed?    Was  it  only  the  needless 
alarm  of  a  foolish  woman  that  thought  him 
anxious  to  reach  the  shelter  of  the  motor  lest  he 
should  be  approached  or  accosted?    She  tried 
to  thmk  so.    It  was  easier  to  question  her  own 

doubt  him.    She  assured  herself  of  that  as  she 
returned  to  her  post  in  the  oriel  window. 

The  girl  in  gray  was  gone,  and  down  the  long 
street,  over  which  there  was  a  thin  glaze  of  ice. 
the  motor  was  creepmg  carefully.  She  watched 
It  because  he  wa^  inside.  It  was  all  she  should 
see  of  him  till  nightfall.  The  whole  of  the  long 
day  must  be  passed  with  this  strange  new  some- 
thuig  m  her  heart-this  something  that  wasn't 

8 


TRANSGRESSION 
anything.  If  he  would  only  come  back  for  a 
minute  and  put  his  arms  about  her  and  let  her 
look  up  mto  his  face  she  would  knmo  it  wasn't 
anything.  She  did  know  it;  she  said  so  again 
and  again.  But  if  he  would  only  discover  that 
he  had  forgotten  somethiug-a  handkerchief  or 
his  cigar-casc;  that  did  '  appen  occasionally  . 

And  then  it  was  as  if  her  prayer  was  to  be 
answered  while  still  on  her  lips.    Before  the 
vehicle  had  got  so  far  away  as  to  be  indistin- 
guishable from  other  vehicles  she  saw  it  stop. 
I    stopped  and  turned.    She  held  her  breath. 
Slowly,  very  slowly,  it  began  to  creep  up  the 
gent  e  slope  again.    She  supposed  it  must  be 
the  treacherous  ground  that  made  it  move  at 
such  a  snail's  pace.    It  moved  as  if  the  chauffeur 
or  his  client  were  looking  for  some  one.    Grad- 
ually It  drew  up  at  the  curb.    It  was  the  curb 
toward  the  Park-and  from  another  of  the  little 
openings  with  iron  posts  to  space  them  off  ap- 
peared the  girl  in  gray. 

She  advanced  promptly,  as  if  she  had  been 
called.  At  the  door  of  the  car  she  stood  Z 
a  few  minutes  in  conversation  with  the  occu- 
pant. For  one  of  the  parties  at  least  that 
method  of  communication  was  apparently  not 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

satisfactory,  for  he  stepped  out,  dismissed  the 
cab.  and  accompanied  the  girl  through  the  lit- 
tie  openmg  into  the  Park.  In  a  second  or  two 
they  were  out  of  sight,  down  one  of  the  sloping 
pathways.  *^   * 

During  the  next  two  months  Edith  had  no 
explanation  of  this  mystery,  nor  did  she  seek 
one.  After  the  first  days  of  amazement  and 
questionmg  she  fell  back  on  what  she  took  to 

tW^rr;""*!"*^-*"*"'^*-  Sh«  argued 
that  ,f  he  had  seen  her  in  some  analogous  situa- 
tion however  astounding,  he  would  have  trusted 
her  to  the  uttermost;  and  she  must  do  the  same 

JUT;  ^''.rj^^'^^^"  Romany  reasons,  she 
sa,d  to  herself,  that  would  not  only  account  for 
the  mcident.  but  do  him  credit.  The  girl  might 
be  a  stenographer  dismissed  from  his  office  ask 
ing  to  be  r«mstated;  she  might  be  a  poor'rela- 
tion  making  an  appeal;  she  might  be  a  wretched 
woman  toward  whom  he  was  acting  on  behalf 
of  a  fnend.  Such  cases,  and  similar  cases 
^rose  frequently. 

The  wonder  was.  however,  that  he  never 
spoke  of  it.    There  was  that  side  to  it,  too. 
It  mduced   another  order  of  reflection.    He 
10 


■■*J#.' 


TRANSGRESSION 

paxtb^  for  her  amusement,  partly  for  his  own, 
aJl  the  happenings,  both  trivial  and  important 
of  each  day  that  his  silence  with  regard  "o 
th«   one.    which   surely   must    be   considered 

A  wretched  woman  toward  whom  he  was  art 

Te   wl        ;  '"'*''^'  "^"''"  *--'!  whom 
he^was   actmg.  not   on    behalf  of   a  friend. 

That  it  migLt  be  all  over  and  done  with 
would  make  no  difference.    Of  course  it  was 

plover  and  done  with-if  it  was  tha  n" 
man  cou  d  love  a  woman  as  he  had  loved  his 
V  |fe  du^g  the  past  six  or  seven  years    and 

that.  If  ,t  had  been-*ven  before  they  were 
marned.  even  before  he  knew  her-  But  sle 
would  ,..hoke  that  tl^ought  back.    She  IS 

She  developed  the  will  to  trust.     She  devel- 
oped a  trust  that  acted  on  her  doubts  like  a 
narcot,<>-not  solving  them,  but  dulling  their 
poignancy  into  stupor. 
So  March  went  out.^and  April  passed,  and 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
May  came  in,  with  leaves  on  the  trees  and 
tulips  in  the  Park,  and  children  playing  on 
the  bits  of  greensward.    She  had  walked  as 
far  as  the  Zoo  with  the  two  little  boys,  and, 
havmg  left  them  with  their  French  governess, 
was  on  her  way  home.    People  were  in  the 
habit  of  dropping  in  between  four  and  six,  and 
of  late  she  had  become  somewhat  dependent 
on  their  comply.    They  kept  her  from  think- 
ing.   Their  scraps  of  gossip  provided  her,  when 
she  talked  to  her  husband,  with  topics  that 
steered  her  away  from  dangerous  ground.    He 
himself  had  given  her  a  hint  that  a  certain 
ground  was  dangerous;    and,  though  he  had 
done  it  laughingly,  she  had  grown  so  sensitive 
as  to  see  in  his  words  more  perhaps  than  they 
meant.    She  had  asked  him  a  question  on  some 
subject— she   had   forgotten    what— quite   re- 
mote from  the  mystery  of  the  girl  in  gray. 
Leaning  across  the  table,  with  amusement  on 
his  lips  and  m  his  eyes,  he  had  replied: 
"Don't  you  remember  the  warning? 

'Where  the  apple  reddens 

Never  pry, 
Lest  we  lose  our  Edens, 
Eve  and  I.'" 
It 


TRANSGRESSION 
Inw«jdly  she  had  staggered  from  the  words 
as  if  he  had  struck  her,  though  he  had  no  rea- 
son to  suspect  that.    In  response  she  merely 
said,  pensively:  "En  aommea  nous  la?" 
"En  aommea  noua — where?" 
"Where  the  apple  reddens." 
"Oh,  but  everybody's  there." 
"You  mean  all  married  people." 
"Married  and  single." 
"But  married  people  more  than  single." 
"I  mean  that  we  all  have  our  illusions,  and 
we'd   better  keep   them  as  long  as  possible. 
When  w^  don't — " 
"We  lose  our  Edens." 
"Exactly." 

"So  that  our  Edens  are  no  more  than  a  sort 
of  fool's  paradise." 

"Ah,  no;  a  sort  of  wise  man's  paradise,  in 
which  he  keeps  all  he's  been  able  to  rescue 
from  a  wicked  world." 

She  was  afraid  to  go  on.  She  might  learn 
that  she  and  their  children  and  their  home 
and  their  happiness  had  been  what  he  had  been 
able  to  rescue  from  a  wicked  world— and  that 
wouldn't  have  appeased  her.  Her  thoughts 
would  have  been  of  the  wicked  world  from 

IS 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 
which  he  had  escaped  more  than  of  the  pata- 
dise  m  which  he  had  found  shelter.  She  was 
no  holy  Elisabeth,  to  welcome  Tannhftuser  back 
from  the  Venusberg.  That  he  should  have 
been  m  the.  Venusberg  at  all  could  be  only  a 
degree  less  torturing  to  her  than  to  know  he 
was  there  still. 

So  she  kept  away  from  subjects  that  would 
have  told  her  more  than  sh.  feared  already, 
taking  refuge  in  themes  she  had  once  consid- 
ered vapid  and  inane.  To  miss  nothing,  she 
hurried  homeward  on  that  May  afternoon,  so 
as  to  be  beside  her  tea-table  in  the  drawing- 
room  before  any  one  appeared.  And  yet,  the 
minute  came  when  she  cast  aside  all  solici- 
tudes and  hesitations. 

Going  up  the  pathway  leading  to  the  open- 
ing opposite  her  house,  she  noticed  a  figure 
standing  between  the  two  iron  posts.  It  was 
not  now  a  figure  in  gray,  but  one  in  white-in 
white,  with  a  rose-colored  sash,  and  carrying 
a  rose-colored  parasol.  Edith  quickcied  her 
pace  unconsciously,  urged  on  by  fear  lest  the 
girl  should  move  away  before  she  had  time  to 
reach  her.  In  spite  of  a  rush  of  incoherent 
emotions  she  was  able  to  reflect  that  she  was 


TRANSGRESSION 

perfectly  cool,  entirely  self-possessed.    She  was 
merely  dominated   by   a  „eed-the  need   of 

wl,r?  *"  'r  '"■*'  *'"■'  P^"""  ''"'J  seeing 
who  she  was.    She  had  no  idea  what  she  her 

selfwould  door  say.orwhetheror  not  she  would 
do  or  say  anything.  That  was  secondary;  it 
would  take  care  of  itself.  The  immediatT  im- 
pulse  was  too  imperative  to  resist.    She  must 

so  Tr\T  '^  r''"«  '^''"^  °'  her  doing 
so.  If  she  had  any  thought  of  a  resulting  con- 
sequence ,t  was  in  the  assumption  that  her 
presence  as  wife  and  woman  of  the  world 
would  dispel  the  noxious  thing  she  l^^t 
striving  to  combat  for  the  past  two  months, 
as  the  sun  oissipates  a  miasma, 
onf  "Vk"  f  P™'"^^*'^  '^^'^  <=«'-eful  and  courte- 

ZL*  ,7*'  ^'  '"""'^  ^  P"'^"''  negligently, 
gracefully,  over  the  shoulder.  It  served  t^ 
conceal  her  face  UU  she  had  passed  the  stranger 
by  a  p^  or  two  and  glanced  casually  back- 

Za  vu  '"*^*  ^*"'  ^°"^  ^'  '^•"^-ver.  with 
full  deliberation,  for  the  woman  took  no  notice 
of  her  at  a  1.  Her  misty,  troubled  blue  eyes,  of 
which  the  lids  were  tpH  «=  :t  t,  • 

fixed  on  th    I  *"°  '^^P"*'  ^^^ 

nxed  on  the  house  across  the  way, 

Edith  saw  now  that,  notwithstanding  a  cer- 


THK   LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

♦uin  youtlifulness  of  dress  and  bearing,  this  was 
a  woman,  not  a  girl.  She  was  thirty-five  at 
least,  though  the  face  was  of  the  blond,  wist- 
ful, Scandinavian  type  that  fades  from  pallor 
to  pallor  without  being  perceptibly  stamped  by 
time.  It  was  pallor  like  that  of  the  white  rose 
after  it  has  passed  the  perfection  of  its  bloom 
and  before  it  has  begmi  to  wither. 
Edith  paused,  still  without  drawing  the  misty 

eyes  on  herself.  » 
"Do  you  know  the  people  in  that  house?" 

she  asked,  at  last. 
The  woman  looked  at  her,  not  inquiringly 

or   with    much   show   of  comprehension,    but 

vaguely  and  as  from  a  distance.    Edith  repeated 

the  question. 

The  thin,  rather  bloodless  lips  parted.  The 
answer  seemed  to  come  under  compulsion  from 
a  stronger  will:  "I— I  know—" 

"You  know  the  gentleman." 

The  pale  thin  lips  parted  again.  After  a 
second  or  two  there  was  a  barely  audible 
"Yes." 

"I'm  his  wife." 

There  was  no  sign  on  the  woman's  part 
either   of   surprise- or   of   quickened   interest. 

16 


TRANSGRESSION 
There  wu  only  the  brief  heuUUon  that  pre- 
ceded all  her  responses. 
"Are  you?" 

"You  knew  he  was  married,  didn't  you?" 
"Oh  yes." 

"Have  you  known  him  long?" 
"Eleven  years." 

"That's  longer  than  I've  known  him." 
"Oh  yes." 

"Do  you  know  how  long  I've  known  him?" 
"Oh  yes." 

"How  do  you  know?" 
"I  remember." 

"What  makes  you  remember?" 
"He  told  me." 
"Why  did  he  tell  you?" 
A  glow  of  animation  came  into  the  dazed 
face.    "That's  what  I  don't  know.    I  didn't 
care-much.    He  always  said  he  would  marry 
^me  day.    It  had  nothing  to  do  with  me. 
We  agreed  on  that  from  the  first." 
"From  the  first  of— what?" 
"Prom  the  first  of  everything." 
Before  putting  the  next  question  Edith  took 
time  to  think.    Because  she  was  so  startlingly 
cool  and  clear  she  was  aware  of  feeling  like  one 
a  17 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 
who  itudi  with  the  revolver  at  her  bieut  or 
the  draught  of  cyanide  in  her  hand,  knowing 
that  within  a  few  seconds  it  may  be  too  late  to 
reconsider.    And  yet.  she  had  never  in  her  life 
felt  more  perfectly  collected.    She  looked  up 
the  street  and  down  the  street,  and  across  at 
her  o^m  house,  of  which  the  cheerful  windows 
reflected  the  May  sunshine.    She  bowed  and 
smiled  to  a  man  on  foot.    She  bowed  and  smiled 
two  or  three  times  to  people  passing  in  carriages 
From  the  Park  she  could  hear  the  shrieks  of 
children  on  a  merry-go-round;   she  could  fol- 
low a  catchy  refrain  from  "The  Belle  of  New 
York  "  as  played  by  a  band  at  a  distance.    Her 
sang-froid   was  extraordinary.    It   was   while 
making  the  observation  to  herself  that  her  ques- 
tion came  oit.  before  she  had  decided  whether 
or  not  to  utter  it.    She  had  no  remorse  for  that, 
however,  since  she  knew  she  couldn't  have  kept 
herself  from  asking  it  in  the  end.    As  weU  ex- 
pect the  man  staggering  to  the  outer  edge  of  a 
precipice  not  to  reel  over. 
"So  it  was — everything?" 
In  uttering  the  words  she  felt  oddly  shy. 
She  looked  down  at  the  pavement,  then,  with 
a  flutter  of  the  eyelids,  up  at  the  woman 


TRANSGRESSION 

But  the  womoo  henelf  .howed  no  luch  hen- 
tetion. 

"Oh  yei." 

"And  is— still?" 

And  then  the  woman  who  wu  not  a  girl,  but 
who  was  curiously  like  a  child,  suddenly  took 
fright.  Tears  came  to  her  eyes;  therts  was  a 
convubive  movement  of  the  face.  Edith  could 
»ee  she  was  a  person  who  wept  easily. 

"I  won't  tell  you  any  more." 

Tlie  declaration  was  made  in  a  tone  of  child- 
ish fretfulness. 

Edith  grew  soothing.    "  I'm  sorry  if  IVe  hurt 
your  feelings.    Don't  mind  speaking,  because 
It  doesn  t  make  any  difference  to  me— now  " 
The  woman  stared,  the  tears  wet  on  her 
cheeks.    "Don't  you— love  him?" 

Edith  was  ready  with  her  answer.    It  came 
firmly:    "No." 
"Didn't  you— everf" 

This  time  Edith  considered,  answering  more 
■lowly.  "I  don't  know.  If  I  ever  did-the 
thmg  ,s  so  dead-that  I  don't  understand  how 
It  could  ever  have  been  alive." 

The  woman  dried  her  eyes.  "I  don't  see 
how  you  can  help  it." 

10 


THE  LETTEB  OP  THE  CONTRACT 
"  You  can't  help  it,  can  you?"  Edith  smiled, 
with  a  sense  of  her  own  superiority.  "I  sup- 
pose that's  the  reason  you  come  here.  I've 
seen  you  before." 
"Have  you?" 

"Yes;   several  times.    And  that  is  the  rea- 
son, isn't  it?-because  you  can't  help  loving 

The  woman's   tears   begaa   to  flow  again 
Its  because  I  don't  know  what  else  to  do. 
When  he  doesn't  coms  any  more—" 
"Oh,  so  he  doesn't  come." 

"Not  unless  I  make  him.    When  he  sees  me 
here — " 

"WeU,  what  then?" 

"He  gets  angry.  He  comes  to  tell  me  that 
if  I  do  it  again — " 

"I^  see.  But  he  comes.  It  brings  him. 
Thats  the  main  thing,  isn't  it?  Well,  now 
that  you've  told  me  so  much,  I'll— I'll  try  to 
-to  send  him."  She  was  struck  with  a  new 
thought.  "If  you  were  to  come  in  now— you 
could— you  could  wait  for  him." 

The  frightened   look   returned.    "Oh.   but 
he'd  kill  me!" 

"Oh  no.  he  wouldn't."     She  smiled  again. 


TRANSGRESSK  N 
with  a  sense  of  her  superiority.     'He  wouldu't 
kill  you  when  he  knew  I  didn't  care." 
"But  don't  you  tare?" 
She  shook  her  head.    "No.    And  I  shall 
never  care  again.    He  can  do  what  he  likes. 
He's  free-and  so  are  you.    I'd  rather  he  went 
to  you.    Eleven  years,  did  you  say?    Why 
he  was  your  husband  long  before  he  was  mine.'' 
"Oh  no;    he  was  never  my  husband.    We 
agreed  from  the  first — " 

"He  wasn't  your  husband  according  to  the 
strict  letter  of  the  contract;  but  I  don't  care 
anything  about  that.  It's  what  7  call  being 
your  husband.  I'd  rather  you  took  him  back. 
...  Oh,  my  God!    There  he  is." 

He  was  standing  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street  watching  them.  How  long  he  had  been 
there  neither  of  them  knew.  Engrossed  in  the 
subject  between  them,  and  screened  by  their 
sunshades,  they  hadn't  noticed  him  come  round 
the  comer  from  Madison  Avenue  on  his  way 
home.  He  stood  leaning  on  his  stick,  strobng 
an  end  of  his  long  mustache  pensively.  He 
wore  a  gray  suit  and  a  soft  gray  felt  hat.  For 
a  minute  or  more  there  was  no  change  in  his 
attitude,  even  when  the  terrified  eyes  of  the 
n 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
women  told  him  he  was  observed.  As  he  be- 
gan to  thread  his  way  among  the  vehicles  to 
cross  the  street  he  displayed  neither  haste  nor 
confusion.  Edith  could  see  that,  though  he 
was  pale  and  grave,  he  could,  even  in  this 
situation,  carry  himself  with  dignity.  In  its 
way  it  was  something  to  be  glad  of.  She  her- 
self stood  her  ground  as  a  man  on  a  smking 
ship  waits  for  the  waves  to  engulf  him. 

Reaching  the  pavement,  he  ignored  his  wife 
to  go  directly  to  the  woman. 
"What  does  this  mean,  Maggie?" 
His  tone  was  not  so  much  stem  as  reproach- 
ful.    The  faded  woman,  who  was  still  trying  to 
make  herself  young  and  pretty,  quailed  at  it. 
Edith  came  to  her  relief: 

"Isn't  that  somethmg  for  you  to  explain. 
Chip?" 

He  turned  to  his  wife.     "I'm  willmg  to  ex- 
plain anything  you  like,  Edith— as  far  as  I  can." 
"I  won't  ask  you  how  far  that  is— because  I 
know  already  everything  I  need  to  know." 
■'Everything  you  need  to  know— what  for?" 
"For  understanding  my  position,  I  suppose." 
"Your  position?    Your  position  is  that  of 
my  wife." 


TRANSGRESSION 
"Oh  no.  it  isn't.    There's  your  wife." 

be  f?°Vr^  *''**■  ^^^-    T*"**  '*dy  would 
be  the  first  to  tell  you—" 

"She  haa  been  the  first  to  tell  me.  She's 
been  extremely  kind.  She's  answered  my 
questions  with  a  frankness—" 

"But  ymt're  not  kind,  Edith.  Surely  you 
«ee  that-that  mentally  she's  not-not  Kke 
every  one  else." 

d„,"K?'.r'*'-  ,^  ^°"'t  *W"k  /  am  now.  I 
doubt  .f  I  ever  shall  be  again.  No  woman  can 
be  mentally  like  every  one  else  after  she's  been 
deceived  as  we've  been." 

"S/^  hasn't  been  deceived.  Edith;    and  I 
should  never  have  deceived  you  if—" 

She  laughed  without  mirth.    "If  you  hadn't 
wanted  to  keep  me  in  the  dark." 
"No;  if  I  hadn't  had  responsibilities-" 
Responsibilities!    Do  you   call  /;ia<"-her 
gance    mdicated    the    woma«.    whose    misty 

io^  T\  r  **•'  °°^  *"  '""^  ''"^'^  ^  ^  vain 
effort  to  follow  what  they  were  saying-"do 
you  call  that  a  responsibility?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  do,  Edith." 

"And  what  about— me?" 

"Hasn't  a  man  more  responsibiUties  than  one?" 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

"A  married  maa  hasn't  more  wives  than 
one." 

"A  married  man  has  to  take  his  life  as  his 
life  has  formed  itself.  He  was  an  unmarried 
man  first." 

"Which  means.  I  suppose,  that  the  ties  he 
formed  when  he  was  an  unmarried  man—" 

"May  bind  him  still-if  they're  of  a  certain 
kind." 

"And  yours  ore— of  a  certain  kind." 
"They're  of  that  kind.    I  haven't  been  able 
to   free   myself  from   them.    But   don't   you 
thmk  we'd  better  go  in?    We  can  hardly  talk 
about  such  things  out  here." 

She  bowed  to  another  passing  friend.  He 
too.  lifted  his  hat.  When  the  friend  had  gone 
by  she  glanced  hastily  toward  the  house. 

..  "^^'  ^  *'*'''*  ^^  "*'"  ^^^  ^^'  hurriedly. 
"I'd  rather  talk  out  here." 

"Very  well,  then.  We  can  take  a  stroll  in 
the  Park?" 

"What?    We  three?" 

"Oh,  she's  gone— if  that's  the  only  reason." 

Tummg,  Edith  saw  the  woman  with  the 

rose-colored   parasol    rapidly   descending   the 

path  by  which  she  had  come. 


4'f 


pje  turned  from  the  girl  to  his  wife.      "I'm  willing 

X  1  to  explam  a.,j-thing  y„u   like-as  far  as  I  caT^  ^ 


TRANSGRESSIO:. 
^    "I'd  still  rather  stay  out  here."  she  said. 
If  I  were  to  go  in,  I  think  it  would—" 
"Yes?    What?" 
"I  think  it  would  kill  me." 
"Oh.   come.   Edith.    Let's   face  the  thinif 
calmly.    Don't  let  us  become  hysterical." 
"Am  I  hysterical.  Chip?" 
"In  your  own   way,  yes.    Where  another 
woman  would  make  a  fuss,  you're  unnaturally 
frozen;  but  it  comes  to  the  same  thing.    I  know 
that  your  heart — " 

"Is  breaking.  Oh.  I  don't  deny  that.  But 
I  d  rather  it  broke  here  than  indoors.  I  don't 
know  why.  but  I  can  stand  it  here,  with  peo- 
pie  gomg  by;   whereas  in  there-  " 

"Oh,  cut  it.  Edith,  for  God's  sake!  Can't 
you  see  that  my  heart's  breaking,  too?" 

She  looked  him  in  the  face,  shaking  her  head 

sa%.    "No.  Chip.  I  can't  see  that.    If  there 

had  been  any  danger  of  it  you  wouldn't  have—" 

"But  I  couldn't  help  it.     That's  what  you 

don  t  seem  to  understand." 

"No;  I'm  afraid  I  don't." 

"Would  you  try  to  understand— if  I  were 

to  tell  you?"  * 

"I  think  I  know  already  most  of  what  you'd 


I 


THE  LETTEB  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

W  to  say.  She'..  woniM  whom  you  knew 
long  before  you  knew  „.e-.„d  J„  J^ 
you  ve  never  been  able—" 

thZ'  T  ""!  ^'"'«''*"  *»'  »  ^^^»^  Lu- 
theran panor-dead  now-^staWished  in  New 

Jersey.  In  some  way  she  drifted  to  the  staj 
Her  name  was  MargaretheKastenskioId.  T^^n 
she  went  on  the  stage  she  made  it  Magg-e  Clare 
She  had  about  as  much  talent  for  the  theater 
-  a  paper  dolf.  When  I  first  fc.cw  her  she  wL 
«t.ll  getting  odd  iobs  in  thiru  a.d  fourth Mte 
compames.    Since  then  she  hasn't  playtd  t 

"I  understand.    There's  been  no  need  o/ it. 
she  s  quite  well  dressed." 

"Let  me  go  on.  will  you,  Edith?    I  was  about 
two  or  three  and  twenty  then.    She  Ty  ha^e 
'"".'*  ^-^-t- older.    She  wa.  living  I 
U.at  time  w,th  Billy  Cummings.    Andsomehol 
.t^happened-after  Billy  died-and  she  was 

She  made  an  appealing  gesture.  "PUate/ 
I  know  how  those  things  come  about-^r  I^ 
ITC^,:  '"  ^°"'  ease^rd-rd  rath" 
without  breaking  down. 

80 


TRANSGRESSION 
"AU  the  same.  Edith."  he  went  on.  "you'll 
r"  ^  ^-^  y""*"  going  to  do  me  anything 
Wee  jurtace.    If  ,he  hadn't  been   a    refin^' 
educated  sort  of  girl,  entirely  at  sea  in  her  sur- 
roundmgs.  and  stranded-stranded  for  money 
mmd  you.  next  door  to  going  to  starve-and 
no  chance  of  getting  a  job.  because  she  couldn't 
act  a  httle  b.t-if  it  hadn't  been  for  all  that-" 
Oh.  I  know  how  you'd  be  generous!" 

be  IZv^'  "°"  '**"'  ^"'^  '^^  '  --  to 

"Is  there  any  reason  why  I  should  know- 
now  that  the  fact  is  there?" 

He  looked  at  her  steadily.  "Edith!  What 
are  you  made  of?" 

SLi  I  xf  '  ^"  ^'"'  **  '''"»•"»  °'  flesh  and 
blood;  but  I'm  not  sure  that  I  am  any  longer 
You  can't  kill  the  heart  in  a  woman's  body- 
and  stdl  expect  her  to  feel." 

"But,  Edith-Edith  darling-there's  no  rea- 
son why  I  shm^ld  have  killed  the  heart  in  your 
body  when  I  never  dreamed  of  doing  you  a 
wrong-that  is.  an  intentional  wrong."  he  cor- 
rected. 

"You  knew  you  were  doing  some  woman  a 

31 


THE  LKTTEH  OF  THE  CONTBACT 

w»ong-«,me  futun.  woman,  the  woman  you'd 

T7»:"  '"  ^  "  ^^^  you  took  up 
^l^y  humming,  dropped  from  hi,  dead 

"Oh  that!  That.  dear,  i,  nothing  but  the 
tiJk  of  femmiat  meeting,.  Men  are  men. 
and  women  are  women.  You  can't  make  one 
law  for  them  both.  Beside,,  it's  too  big  a 
aubject  to  go  into  now."  * 

"I'm  not  trying  to.    I  wasn't  thinking  of 
men  m  general:  I  was  thinking  only  of  you  " 

But.  good  I^rd.  Edith,  you  don't  think 
I  ve  been  better  than  any  one  else,  do  you?" 

Her  forlorn  smile  made  his  heart  ache.    "I 
rf>dthmkso.    I  daresay  it  was  a  mistake- 
It  wo,  a  mistake.    If  you  hadn't  made  it-" 
But  It  was  at  least  a  mistake  one  can  under- 
stand.    I  could  hardly  be  expected  to  take  it 
for  granted-whatever  men  may  be.  op  may 
have  the  nght  to  be-that  the  man  who  asked 
me  to  mar^  hi^_^d  ^j,„  ^^  ^^  ^^^^  ^^ 

as  I  think  few  men  have  been  loved  by  women 
-I  could  hardly  take  it  for  granted  that  he 
was  already  keeping-and  had  been  keeping 
for  years-and  would  keep  for  years  to  come- 
another — 


TRANSGRESSION 
He  moved  impatiently.    "But.  I  tell  you. 
I  couldn't  get  rid  of  her.    I  couldn't  shake  he 

tWs^  It  waa  agreed  between  us  be/ore  I 
married  you-fo„,  before  1  married  you- 
that  everythmg  wa,  at  an  end.  But.  poor 
^uUhe  doesn't  know  what  an  agreem^nH 
There  s  somethmg  lacking  in  her.  She's  al- 
^s  been  Uce  a  child,  and  of  late  years  she's 
been  more  so  K  you  knew  her  as  I  do  you'd 
be  sorry  for  her."  ^ 

"Oh.  lam  sorry  for  her.    Her  whole  mind 
M  ravaged  by  suffering." 

"I  know  it's  my  fault;  but  it  isn't  whoUy 
or  even  ch.efly  n,y  fault.  A  woman  like  that 
has  no  nght  to  suffer.  She  lost  the  privile^ 
of  suffermg  when  she  became  what  she  is.  S 
any  rate,  she  has  no  right  to  haunt  like  a  shadow 
the  man  who's  befriended  hei— " 

"But.  I  presume,  she's  befriended  him.  And 
-an^^«,ntmues  to  befriend  him-since  that's 

He  avoided  her  eyes,  looking  up  the  street 
and  whistling  tunelessly  beneat 'his  brelth 

repit"  '■""'  *•*   '^'""'^   ^'"  ^^ 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

The  tuneless  whistling  went  on.  She  al- 
lowed  him  time  to  get  the  full  effect  of  her 
meanmg.    As  far  as  she  could  see  her  wa^ 

mel'h  1  rr.'^^P-'^-'-  his  responsi 
men  he  dodged  the  question  she  knew  what 
she  would  have  to  do. 

long  and  short  of  it  is  this.    She's  on  my  hands 

s7"    ^^2'^'"^'^°^^'-  i--tsiZ 

U  a?!  'r  "^/"'  "*  "^^  ^^'^  '^-*-    Hang 
It  all    shes-she's  attached  to  me;   has  been 

attached  to  me  for  more  than  te^  yea«  1 
caat,^o«that;now.canI?    And  she's  help- 
less.   How  can  I  desert  her?    I  can't  do  iV 
y  more  than!  could  desert  a  poor  old  faith-' 
ful  dog-or  a  baby.     Can  I,  now?" 
"No;  I  dare  say  not." 
"But  I'll  teU  you  what  I'll  do.    I'll  under- 
^e  never  to  see  her  again-of  ^  „^  f^ 
wui.    1  il  give  you  my  word  of  honor-" 

for  Jhat  •"'  '"  ''"'•     "°''  '"'"  -*  -"^ 

pnl^r/*""*  ''°  ^°"  '^^  ^°'^    J-st  teU  me. 
and  whatever  it  is—" 

"It's  that,  since  you  can't  abandon  her.  you 
abandon  me."  ' 

84 


TBANSGEESSION 
"Whatt" 

She^^peatcd  the  word,  more  firnjy. 

dol'^r-^'r""'  l"^'  •^  ^-  -  to  aban- 
don you.      ShegavelumalitUenod.    "Good- 

She  had  turned  and  taken  a  step  or  two  aJon«, 

.t  r:^t:" ------ 

b^ing  like  a  woman  w^ aXe  T  '''*;'  "' 
potassium  in  her  hand  tn/^  u  '^""*^^  *»' 
or  not  to  take"  wtll  T  .  T'""*  '^^^^^^ 
andl-died  T^' .  •  t  J""^ '*•  ^  ^^  ^^ 
wife^      ^,!*  "'  *^«  ^'"^  -ho  was  your 

yet-ifstooUn  to  say-but  ^"\"'''*  ''  ^ 
.      It's—Jf.         ^°  f«y— but  It  isn't  your  wife. 

'.Hi    *  something  like  that." 

way     cl"'*-'\^'"^-     "Don't  talk  that 
way.    Comem.    You  can't  stay  out  here  " 

35 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 
She  looked  over  at  the  house  again.    He 
thought  she  shuddered.    "I  can't  stay  out 
here;  but  I  don't  have  to  go  in— there." 
''What  do  you  mean?    Where  are  you  going?" 
"Just  now  I'm  going  to  Aunt  Emily's." 
"Very  well.    I'll  send  a  carriage  for  you 
after  dinner— if  you  stay  so  late." 
"No;  don't  do  that." 
"Do  you  mean — ?" 

"I  mean  that  I  may  stay  there  for  two  or 
three  days— perhaps  longer.  After  that  I'll— 
I'll  see." 

"You'll  see— what?" 

"Where  to  go  next." 

"Oh,  come,  Edie,  let's  talk  sense.  You  know 
I  can't  allow  that." 

She  smiled  again,  with  that  queer,  forlorn 
smile  that  seemed  to  stab  him.  "I'm  afraid 
the  authority  is  out  of  your  hands— now." 

He  let  that  pass. 

"Even  so,  there  are  the  children.  Think 
of  them." 

"I  am  thinking  of  them— which  is  why  I 
must  hurry  away.  They'U  be  here  in  a  min- 
ute; and  I-I  can't  see  them  yet.  I  shouldn't 
be  able  to  bear  it." 

36 


TRANSGRESSION 
"And  do  you  think  you'll  be  able  to  bear 
our  bemg  separated  for  two  or  three  days, 
when  you  kr^  I  ^^ore  you?    Why.  you'l 
break  down  within  an  hour." 

I  "^X"  T\  '*•    '^^"''^  ''^y  I  °>"«t  hurry. 
I  shall  break  down  within  half  an  hour.     You 
don  t  suppose  I  can  go  on  like  this?    I'm  al 
SytS^ir--    '-t  get  to  Aunt 

papSr  ''"  ^*"""''"^  ^'  ^  '^'y-  "Hello. 
Up  the  pathway  leading  from  the  Zoo  a  lit- 
«e  wh,te-su.ted  man  of  five  came  prancing  a^d 
--ammg.  foHowed  by  another  of  three  do"g 
the  same  The  French  governess  march  J 
pnmly  and  sedately  behmd  them. 

You  see?"  Edith  said.  quicUy.     "I  „„,t 

Zm     "V-   '"u  *^'"  to-night-or  speak  to 
them-or  bss  them-or  hear  them  say  their 

Aunt  EmJy.  a^  I  did  when  she  was  ill.    You 

TlZT'^'J^'^'^''''^-    TellJenny 
she  needn't  send  me  anything-yet.    I  hav^ 

some  things  ther^that  I, eft  LCtL^^t 

37 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 
"Oh,  you're  not  going  to  stay  all  night."  he 
groaned.     "You'll  come  back." 

"Very  well.  If  I  come  back-I  come  back. 
It  will  be  so  much  the  better  or  so  much  the 
worse,  as  the  case  may  be.  If  I  come  back,  it 
wil  be  because  I  accept  the  compromise  you 
make  between  me  and— and  your  other-" 

He  broke  in  hastily.  "It's  not  a  compromise 
-and  there  s  no  'other.'  If  you  could  see  how 
far  from  vital  the  whole  thing  is.  from  a  man's 
pomt  of  view — " 

"Unfortunately.  I'm  only  a  woman,  and  can 
see  It  only  from  a  woman's  point  of  view.  So 
that,  rf  I  don't  come  back,  it  will  be  because- 
becaus^the  Edith  who  was  your  wife  is  dead 
beyond  resurrection." 

"But  she  isn't!" 

"Perhaps  not.  We  must  see.  I  shall  know 
a  IMe."         '"'"-''^^  ^  '^^y  '--  y- 

"And  in  the  mean  time  you  may  be  risking 
your  happiness  and  mine." 

She  shot  him  a  reproachful  glance.  "Do  j/ou 
say  that?"  * 

"Yes  Edith.  I  do  say  it.  If  IVe  broken  the 
letter  of  the  contract,  you  may  be  transgress- 

83 


TRANSGRESSION 
fflg  its  spirit.    Don't  forget  that.    Take  caxe 
^at  I  did.  I  did  because  I  couldn't  hel^ t 
You  can  help  it—" 

"Oh  no^  I  can't.  That's  where  you  haven't 
understood  me.  You  say  I  don't  see  things 
from  your  pomt  of  view,  and  perhap.  I  don't 
But  neither  do  you  see  them  from  mine.  You 
wonder  why  I  don't  go  over  there"-she  nodded 
toward  the  house-"where  I  had  my  home- 
where  my  children  have  theirs-where  you  and 
I...  But  I  can't.     That's  all  I  can  say.     Im^y 

-irr^;''"'^'''"'''^-  B"tiustnow 
I  couldnt  drag  myself  up  the  steps.  It 
would  mean  that  we  were  going  on  as  before, 
wben  aU  that-that  sort  of  thing-seems  to  me 
W — ^so  utterly  over." 

to  iSk^^'"'  '"*"*°"'' '"''""  ^°"'^"  ^^^  *^« 

"Perhaps  I  shaU.    And  time  to  think  is  all 
Imaskmg.     You  understand  that,  don't  you? 
that  Im  not  makmg  anything  definite-yet 
?i'ert""™'°^''-''toyo".Iwill.    But 

"Helk>.   mama!    Hello,   papa!"    The   elder 
boy  galloped  up.     "We've  seen  the  monkey^ 
And  one  great  big  monkey  looked  like-"       ' 

39 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTHACT 

^  "Am.  mamanl    AM.  j,apal    N's  avon,  mi 
te»^«^ea-^U  des  drdleal    II  y  en  avaU  un 

The  «Mdren  caught  their  father  round  the 
knees.  Stooping,  he  put  his  arms  about  them, 
urgmg  them  toward  their  mother.  They  were 
to.  plead  for  him-to  be  his  advocates. 

Tell  mama."  he  whispered  to  the  older 

boy.     not  to  go  to  Amit  Emily's  to-night. 

Tell  her  we  can't  do  without  her-that  we 

want  her  at  home."    He  turned  to  the  younger. 
Dv,h  maman  que  tu  vaa  pleurer  n  eUe  U  quiUe 

'^P^'^lfaut  gu'elle  vienne  t'ecouter  L  ta 

But.  when  he  raised  himself.  Edith  was  al- 
ready walking  swiftly  up  the  Avenue.  He 
would  have  followed  her.  only  that  the  chil! 
dren  seemed  to  restrain  him.  dinging  to  his 

watch  her  whJe  the  thronging  crowds  and  the 
sbmrnenng  sun-shot  dust  of  the  golden  after- 
noon blotted  her  from  his  sight-and  the  gr^t 


REaENTMENT         '' 

TT  WM  a  strange  sensation  to  be  free.    It  was 
X  stJl  more  strange  that  it  was  not  a  sensa- 
tion.   I    was  a  kind  of  numbness.    She  could 
only  feel  that  she  didn't  feel.    In  spite  oTh^ 
repeated    silent    assertions.    "I'm    free!    I'm 
iree!    any  consciousness  of  change  eluded  her 
It  was  true  tiiat  there  had  been  a  moment 
Uce  a  descent  mto  hell,  from  which  she  thought 
»he   must   come   up   another   woman.    Aunt 
Enuly  and  tiie  lawyer  had  whirled  her  some- 
where m  a  motor.    Veiled  as  heavily  as  was 
«ent  with  articulation,  she  haJ  told  " 
tale  that  seemed  abominable,  though  it  was 
no  more  than  a  narrative  of  the  facts,    ft 
llf  ..      T"  "^  ^"^^^^^-^  to  learn  that 
sZ  W     r  ?"^^'  ^""^^  ^^  Published  a 
Z  mof  of  her  taken  as  she  was  re-entering 
the  motor  to  come  away.    But  even  the  horror 
of  that  moment  passed,  as  something  too  un- 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

real  to  be  other  than  a  dream,  and.  except  that 
vir^  the  children  were  sUying  with  Aunt 
Emily  instead  of  m  their  own  home.  aU  was  as 
before.  All  was  as  before  to  a  disappointing 
degree-to  a  degree  that  maddenod  her 

It  maddened  her  because  it  brought  no  ap- 
peasement to  that  which  for  more  than  a  year 
had  been  her  dominating  motive-to  do  some- 
thing to  Chip  that  would  bring  home  to  him 
a  realizing  sense  of  what  he  had  done  to  her  It 
was  not  that  she  Wanted  revenge.  She  waa  pos- 
.tive  as  to  that.  She  wanted  only  to  make  il 
understand.  Hitherto  he  hadn't  understood. 
She  had  seen  that  in  all  his  letters,  right  up  to 

t^^JTl  ''\'°'  ^'^'"  *•»  ^^-P"''  by  what 
seemed  to  her  his  moral  obtuseness.  she  had 
impIoKd  him  not  to  write  again.  It  was  to 
help  him  to  understand  that  which  he  was 
eUher  unable  or  unwilling  to  understand  that 
she  had  so  resolutely  refused  to  see  him-partly 
that,  and  partly  Aunt  Emily.  She  would  have 
died  dit  hadn't  been  for  Aunt  Emily-^ied  or 

Seriht*'^'"^"*'^^^*"^^^^^ 
It  frightened  her  chiefly  because  she  pos- 
sessed the  capacity  to  do  it.    In  a  way  it  would 


RESENTMENT 
be  easier  to  do  it  tluin  not^asier  to  do  it.  and 
yet  impossible  to  go  on  with  the  new  situation 
thus  created  after  it  was  done.    It  would  mean 
being  back  in  the  old  home  and  resuming  the 
old  life;   there  would  be  what  people  called  a 
reconc.I.at.on.    Chip    would    be   coming   and 
gomg  and  whistling   tunelessly  all   over  the 
We     And  the  awful  thing  about  it  would 
be  that  he  had  it  in  him  to  be  as  happy  as  if 
this  horrible  thing  had  never  taken  plac^ 
happier,  doubtless,   because  it   would   be  b.- 
lund  him     He  would  not  have  understood; 
she  would  have  ceased  trying  to  make  him 
understand;    he  would  have  so  little  seen  the 
significance  of  hU  own  acts  as  to  feel  free  to 
do  the  same  thing  all  over  again. 

So  the  impulse  to  go  back  frightened  her  with 
a  fear  that  paralyzed  her  longing.  If  he  had 
said  but  once:  "Edith.  I  know  I've  sinned 
««amst  you;  I  know  IVe  made  you  suffer; 
Ive  broken  the  contract  between  us;  I'm  re- 
pentant; forgive  me."  it  might  have  been  dif- 
ferent. But  he  had  said  nothing  of  the  kind. 
His  letters,  beseeching  though  they  were,  only 
aggravated  her  complaint  against  him.  "What 
else  could  I  do?  . . .  The  poor  thing  clung  to  me. 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

...  As  far  as  it  affected  my  devotion  to  you  it 
might  liave  happened  in  another  phase  of 
creation."  That  was  the  amazing  part  of  it. 
that  he  should  expect  her  to  be  content  with 
such  an  explanation,  that  he  should  try  to  de- 
prive her  of  a  wife's  last  poor  pitiful  privilege, 
a  sense  of  indignity.  She  was  not  only  to  con- 
done  what  he  had  done,  but  as  nearly  as  possible 
she  was  to  give  it  her  approval. 

As  to  tiiis  aspect  of  tiie  case  she  might  not 
have  been  so  dete  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Aunt 
Emily.    Aunt  Emily  was  very  clear.    She  was 
dear  and  just,  without  being  wholly  unsym- 
pathetic toward  Chip.     That  is,  she  pointed 
out  tiie  fact  that  Chip  did  no  more  tiian  most 
men  would  do.    He  was  no  worae  than  «,« 
average.    He  might  even  be  a  littie  better. 
But,  according  to  Aunt  Emily,  the  man  didn't 
hve  who  was  worthy  of  a  really  good  woman's 
love.    It  was  foolish  for  a  really  good  woman 
to  put  herself  at  tiie  disadvantage,  of  casting 
her  pearls  before-well.  Aunt  Emily  was  too 
much  of  a  lady  to  say  what;  it  was   '\  the  more 
foolish  considering  the  quantity  of  feminine 
tag-rag  and  bobtafl  quite  good  enough  to  be 
wives. 

44 


RESENTMENT 
Edith  couldn't  deny  that  her  aunt  had  kept 
herself  on  an  enviably  high  plane  of  safety. 
She  had  her  money  to  herself,  and  no  heart- 
aches.    She  was  respected,  admired,  and  feared. 
By  a  little  circle  of  adorers,  mostly  composed 
of  spinsters  younger,  poorer,  and  less  advan- 
tageously  placed  than  herself,  she  was  even 
loved.    She  was  far  from  lonely;  she  was  far 
from  having  missed  the  best  things  in  life. 
She  was  traveled,  well-read,  philanthropic,  and 
broad-minded.    She  was  likewise  tall,  stately, 
and  dominant,  with  an  early  Victorian  face  to 
which  a  mid-Victorian  wig.  kept  in  place  by 
a  band  of  plaits  around  the  brow,  was  not  un- 
becoming.   Nevertheless.  Aunt  Emily  was  en- 
tirely modem,  modem  with  that  up-to-date 
femimmty  which  with  regard  to  men  takes  its 
key  from  the  bee's  impulse  toward  the  drone, 
stinging  him  to  death  once  he  has  fulfilled  his 
functions. 

It  was  a  help  to  Edith  that  Aunt  Emily  could 
enter  into  the  suflferings  entailed  by  an  out- 
raged love  without  being  hampered  by  the 
weaknesses  inherent  in  the  love  itself.  She 
could  afford  to  be  detached  and  impartial, 
brmgmg  to  bear  on  the  situation  the  interest 

AK 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

eveiy  intelligent  penon  take,  in  drama.  R» 
her  participaUon  Edith  felt  she  couldn't  be 
too  grateful  to  a  relative  on  whom  ahe  had  no 
urgent  claim  beyond  the  fact  that  .he  wa.  now 
her  only  one.  Aunt  Emily',  clear  vision  might, 
indeed,  bo  «»id  to  have  found  the  way  through 
ft  tangle  of  poignant  condition,  in  which  her 
own  poor  heart  had  been  able  to  do  nothing 
but  fumble  helplewly.  ^^ 

It  wa.  a  way  of  wrrow..  and  there  had  been 
no  choice  but  t6  take  it.    Chip  had  to  be  made 
to  feel.    Her  whole  being  had  become  con- 
centrated on  that  result.    From  it  she  had  ex- 
pected  not  only  realization  for  him,  but  a.- 
suagement  of  longing  for  herwlf ;  and  the  latter 
hadn  t  come.    She  could  hardly  ««  that  any- 
thmg  had  come  at  all.    If  it  were  not  for  Aunt 
Emily  she  wouldn't  have  pereeived  that  she  had 
won  a  victory.    Chip  might  realize  now;  she 
didn  t  know;  she  probably  would  never  know 
It  wa.  perhaps  the  impossibflity  of  knowing* 
that  left  her  still  unwtisfied.    So  long  a.  the 
thing  had  not  yet  been  done  she  had  enjoyed 
at  least  the  relief  of  action.    She  wa.  chal- 
lenging Chip,  she  was  defying  Wm;    he  was 
making  her  some  sort  of  response,  even  when 

46 


RESENTMENT 

it  w«  made  in  ..lence.  She  nan. tlu,  one  and 
he  w«  M*  other.  i«d  thc«  w«  an  interplay 
of  force,  between  them.    Now  all   that  w« 

Where  the  other  had  been  there  was  a  blank 
an  emptjW  Her  heart  when  it  cried  ouMo 
^produced  the  queer,  creepy  effect  of  a  man 
^g  to  h,m«lf-the«  was  no  one  to  hear 
or  to  am.wer.  The«,  was  a  needle  but  no 
^le.  there  was  a  law  of  gravitation,  but  noth- 
ing to  justify  the  power  of  attraction. 

S^J"/^,  '"'"'«  *"*'""°  »'»«  '^^nt  abroad 
She  didn't  know  what  else  to  do.  Aunt  E^y 
was  nch  and  kind:  but  there  were  limiU  to 
hosp.tel.ty.  One  had  to  feel  that  there  w« 
a  worfd  beneath  one's  feet,  and  Europe  s^m^ 
to  be  there  for  that  purpose.  Besides,  it  was 
-y  to  travel  while  the  children  were  so  you^" 

t«kiBg  them,  and  returned  with  the  father's 
consent.    She  was  not  bound  to  ask  for  t^L 

but  she  considered  it  courteous  to  do  so.  I 
while  she  did  it  he  chose  to  take  the  oppor- 
tumty  to  recognize  her  continued  existence  by 

47  ' 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

an  inquiry  or  a  word-well.  then,  she  said  to 
herself  with  a  sob.  it  was  there  for  him  to  make 
use  of.    But  he  didn't  take  it.    He  maintained 
the  silence  on  which  he  had  fallen  back  ever 
mnce  her  final  peremptory  letter  requesting 
him  not  to  write  to  her-she  wondered  if  she 
had  made  it  more  peremptory  than  she  had 
intended!-and  so  she  sailed  away  without  so 
much  as  a  gift  from  him  to  the  children.    She 
could  hardly  bqar  to  look  at  the  shore  of  the 
continent  that  held  him  as  it  faded  out  of  sight, 
so  bitterly  she  resented  what  she  now  called  his' 
callousness. 

When  the  cold  weather  came  she  established 
herself  at  Cap  d'Ail.  where  the  lofty  perch  of 
the  hotel  above  Monaco  and  the  Mediterranean 
seemed  to  lift  her  into  a  region  of  friendly, 
flowery  peace.    She  enjoyed  this  as  much  as 
she  could  enjoy  anything.    No  echo  of  the  past 
reached  her  here,  and  it  was  an  unexpected  relief 
to  be  away  from  Aunt  Emily's  bursts  of  triumph 
and  felicitation.     With  a  book  she  hardly  looked 
at  in  her  hand  she  could  sit  at  her  window  or 
on  the  terrace,  soothed  incomprehensibly  by  the 
blue-green  sweep  of  the  immemorial  sea  beside 
which  so  many  other  sad  hearts  had  watched 

48 


RESENTMENT 

before  her  own.  She  felt  herself  caught  into  a 
feUowship  that  included  not  only  Hagar  and 
Hecuba,  but  myriad,  of  unremembered  women 
whose  tears  alone  might  have  filled  this  vast 
jraajd  ocean-drawing  a  comfort  that  was  not 
wholly  morbid  from  the  reflection  that  the^ 
WM  an  end  even  to  the  breaking  of  hearts. 

Here  m  this  high,  sequestered  spot,  which 
nevertheless  preserved  the  moridaniih  to  which 
she  was  accustomed,  she  would  gladly  have 
spent  the  winter  alone  with  her  clildreu  an" 
then-  governess  had  there  not  arrived  at  the 
hotel  a  woman  she  had  known  for  many  yeara 
and  who  was  in  a  position  oddly  similar  to  her 

In  New  lork  she  was  Mr..  Harry  Scadding. 
She  was  now  Mrs.  G.  Cottle  Scadding  for  pur- 

^Za'I  "T,   '''^°t''fi'^«t'°''-    She  also  had 
f.^  he«elf ";  she  also  had  had  a  snapd^ot 

two  lu""^'r'^''"''=  '^^  "'^°  t™^^ed  with 
two  chJdren.  It  was  impossible  for  Edith  not 
to  meet  her  and  engage  in  amicable  conversa- 
tions.  durmg  which  the  lady  talked  freely  of 
her  case,  discussing  the  merits  and  demerits 
of  her  CO..  as  though  that  person  had  been 
a  kmd  of  partner. 

to 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

She  was  a  lively  young  woman,  frank  and 
amusing.    Moreover,  she  knew  the  people  who 
made  up  Edith's  small  world,  and  Edith  was 
lonely.    While  the  two  sets  of  children  played 
together  the  two  mothers  sat  on  the  terrace 
and  talked.    It  was  talk  in  which  Edith  was 
chiefly  a  listener,  but  a  listener  who  couldn't 
deny  that  she  was  entertained.    She  was  un- 
comfortable only  when  discerning  compatriots 
appeared,  an^  with  visible  nods  and  smiles 
rated  them  as  "two  of  a  kind."    It  was  a  kind 
over  which  she  and  Chip  had  smiled  and  nodded 
many  a  time  during  their  wanderings  in  Europe, 
never  thinking  that  she  herself  should  ever  be 
classed  in  the  number. 

She  had  been  able  to  take  the  situation  light- 
ly then— this  curious  situation  of  the  "freed" 
American  wife,  with  or  without  children,  drift- 
ing through  Europe,  aimless,  and  generaUy 
better  off  when  friendless.  But  she  began  to 
be  sorry  for  the  type.  Instead  of  shrinking 
from  Gertie  in  the  presence  of  the  discerning 
compatriots,  as  she  was  at  first  inclined  to  do. 
she  made  it  a  point  to  be  seen  with  her,  cham- 
pioning the  sisterhood  of  lonehness.  There 
were  moments  when  this  association  might  not 
to 


RESENTMENT 

trt.ti^T*' '"'  '""'^ "«« '^  -o- 

ZT       ''^'''^-^  't  seemed  to  Edith^is- 
"etxon  was  not  a  part  of  valor.    Once  or  ^^^ 
-he  accompanied  her  friend  to  Nice;   once  S 
twice  to  Monte  Carlo.    On  each  of  th^o^ 
casiona  she  found  herself  in  a  gathering  JcS 
-opohtan  odds  and  ends  in  wWch  shel^^^ 
l^r  ,^  !*'""P--Wp  being  new  tThet 
.he  e    obhged  to  take  its  bitter  with  its  sweeT 
That  ,t  was  mostly  bitter  gave  her  additiorai 
ground  of  complaint  against  Chip.    He  had 

dnvenhertoakindofdeterioration.adeteriorl- 
^^  she  couldn't  define,  but  of  which  r:f 
-ometbng  noxious  in  the  atmosphere,  she  was 

;%Htedher.ortar;ed':;h:r?atS 
^course  with  misgiving.  With  a  fa.:^?^ 
^.  «mple  people,  who  apparently  had  noth- 
2t»  «t»ve  for  with  the  resUessness  which 
Jaract««^  the  social  fag^nds  whom  she  was 

£ld  "**"'^^."^««»-:   but  she  never  got 
beyond  an  occasional  bow  or  smile,  generdly 

51 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
over  some  incident  connected  with  the  chil- 
dren. Of  one  man  she  was  afraid.  She  was 
afraid  of  him  without  knowing  why,  except 
that  he  seemed  to  watch  her  rather  pityingly. 
She  resented  the  pity;  she  resented  his  watching 
her  at  all.    And  yet . . . 

If  he  hadn't  been  a  grave  man,  evidently  oc- 
cupied with  grave  aflFairs,  her  resentment  might 
have  become  annoyance.  In  the  cmjumstances 
it  was  resentment  modified  by  a  litUe  grati- 
tude. She  hardly  understood  her  gratitude  un- 
less it  was  for  a  hint  of  solicitude  in  a  world 
where  no  one  seemed  to  bother  about  her  any 
more.  He  did  bother  about  her.  She  grew 
sure  of  that.  Not  for  an  instant  could  she 
thiilk  of  the  quiet,  rather  wistful,  regard  with 
which  she  caught  him  following  her  or  the 
children  as  being  meant  otherwise  than 
kindly. 

She  had  no  idea  who  he  was.  All  she  could 
affirm  from  distant  and  somewhat  superficial 
observation  was  that  he  was  Somebody— Some- 
body of  position,  experience,  and  judgment- 
Somebody  to  respect.  She  thought,  too.  that 
he  must  be  Somebody  of  distmction.  partly  be- 
cause he  looked  it,  and  partly  because  he  was 


HESENTMENT 

served  by  a  valet  and  a  secretaiy  scarcely  less 
d«  mgu^hed  than  hin^elf.  M  ZZ\^^ 
senous  men  well  into  the  forties.  Th^  yZ 
wa.  English,  the  secreta^  French,  th ' LL^ 
American     She    would    not.    however. Tav" 

^Z  fV"-*-"*-"*  '-  -  fellow-counC^ 
Tn  ^  "°*  «=«Wentally  heard  him  ZT 
In  r^ard  to  ertenials  he  was  as  ne^  S^ 
«b  e  denationalized.  He  had  evidenUy  hC 
a  long  t.me  ab^ad.  though  he  bore  no  o^ 
county's  special  stamp.    He  roused  he"  cS 

f     c.    «  nurt  It  m  a  manner  to  malcp 
her  the  more  resolute  in  goine  her  „!™ 

Not  that  it  was  a  Zv  ?    ^  '^*^- 

Tl,»  „  T.u  '^*"y  reprehensible  wav 

The  wo«t  that  could  be  said  of  it  was  thrS 

edge  of  ^eWorld.    None  had  been  so  mtht 
Ed.th  then  found  it  necessary  to  submittoal 

S3 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

introduction  with  daily,  almost  hourly,  hazards 
of  encounter. 

He  was  a  young  Frenchman  like  many  hun- 
dreds of  his  kind,  who  might  have  been  a  fin- 
ished sketch  in  sepia.    Sepia  would  have  done 
justice  to  the  even  tan  of  his  complexion,  to 
the  soft-brown  of  his  eyes,  of  his  hair,  of  his 
mustache,   and   rendered    the    rich   chestnut 
which  was  of tener  than  not  his  choice  for  clothes. 
Gertie   flirted' with   him   outrageously— there 
was  no  other  phrase  for  it.    It  was  the  kind  of 
girting  one  was  obliged  to  consider  innocent, 
since  the  alternative  would  have  been  too  ap- 
palling.   Edith  opted  for  the  innocent  construc- 
tion, lending  an  abashed  countenance  to  the 
situation  out  of  loyalty  to  the  sisterhood  of 
loneliness.    It  was  a  countenance  that  grew 
more  ^I^ashed  whenever,  in  the  process  of  lend- 
ing it,  her  eye  met  that  of  the  man  who  had. 
constituted  himself,  she  was  convinced,  her 
silent  guardian. 

Fortunately,  Mrs.  G.  Cottle  Scadding  took 
herself  off  to  Italy,  the  young  Frenchman  dis- 
appearing at  the  same  time.  It  was  a  new 
proof  to  Edith  of  the  depth  of  need  to  which 
she  had  come  down  that  she  missed  them. 
M 


RESENTMENT 
She  miMed  their  frivolity  and  incon«H,uentid. 

Z^r  *^'^  ''"'"  "^^  *«^y  ^^^  -he 
had.  She  wa.  thrown  back.  the«fo«^  on 
h«_ovm  desolation  and  on  her  memories  of 

She  made  the  discovery  with  some  alarm 
that  Ch,p  was  becoming  to  her  mo.*  and  more 
the  cen  er  of  a  group  of  memories.  She  was 
losmg  km.  That  is.  she  was  losing  him  as^ 
acfaabty;  she  was  losing  him  as  the  "v^ 
^und  which  her  life  had  swung,  even  sin«  he 
knowledge  of  his  great  treason.  She  was  no 
more  appalled  by  the  loss  than  by  the  pereep- 
tion  of  her  own  volatility. 

It  wa^a  pereeption  that  deepened  when, 
some  fortmght  after  GerUe's  departure,  the 
young  Frenchman   reappeared.    "He's   come 
back  on  my  account,"  was  Edith's  ihstant  re- 
flection    She  was  indign^it:    and  yet  some- 
thmg  else  stirred  in  her  that  was  not  indigna- 
tion, and  to  which  she  was  afraid  to  givVa 
name.    Perhaps  there  was  no  name  to  give  it 
As  far  as  she  could  analyze  its  elements,  they 
lay  m  the  twin  facts  that  she  was  still  young 
enough  to  be  attractive  to  men  and  to  find 
pleasure  in  her  attractiveness.    It  was  a  plea^ 


BS 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

Z  f*-'!?"^  '■**  ^«^  "^^y'  apologetically, 
but  It  raised  it  none  the  less.  ^' 

TMn  '""uf  "*"'  ""*  ^•'"^y^  thought  that 

Ue  She  had  dedicated  heraelf  to  Wm  so  en- 
^y  that  it  wa.  difficult  to  accept  the  idl 
t^t  any  part  of  her  might  have  ien  held  J 
reserve  for  future  possibilities.  That  her  lif" 
«  have  been  blasted  was  bad  enough;  but 

^  It  should  renew  its  vigor  and  put  forS. 

^oots  for  a  second  bloom  was  frightful.    Tt 

^men  m  her  position  even  married^a^ 
She  might  marry  again.    She  never  wo^Z^ 

!^  fiZ,  u         ""  oomprehension  of  this  lib- 
erty  filled  her  with  dismay 

possessed  It  had   been   theoretic  only.    The 

faTt^hafl^'^T.  '~"«'*  ^''^  *«  h«  ^e 
fact  that  she  could  act  on  it  if  she  were  eve^ 

-i^hned     Not  that  he  asked  he..  r^oT 
He  had  only  reached  the  point  of  inviting  h^r' 

to  dme  With  him  at  Monte  Carlo  and  Wkt 
at  the  gammg  afterward.    She  declined  m 


KESENTMENT 

inviution  gently  and  without  rancor  toward 

^;  but.  in  the  idiom  3he  us^  i„  tal^^U 

.  '"«n.  »t  gave  her  to  think.  "»»^  witn 

It  gave  her  to  realize  abo.    The  moment  waa 

covered  she  was  a  woman  whom  a  relatively 

a^one.    She  had  passed  out  of  the  fellowship  of 

b::i!  stx  i:r  tL^^"^' '*'' 

♦I..*  xt      .  ''^  discovered,  moreover 

created  for  herself-that  she  should  be  invited 
Z  *!»"  way  to  Giro's  and  that  the«  2jJ 

was^nTsh'f  J^***  ^*'"°^-    Sl'e  cert^ 

S^>e^.st^i:=f-£ 

drawn  mto  Gertie's  company,  and  yet  wW 
to'own    Gerhe   smce    they    were   school-girls. 


St 


THE  LETTEB  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
When  aU  w«  „jd  „d  done  Gertie  w«  „  gopd 
M  die-m  whatever  met  the  eye  ZHi 
vo«>ed  woman  could  hardly  driw  he^  l^" 
•way  from  another.  The  longerThe  Lt^ 
ihe  more  clearly  .he  saw  thatXc:  Jd^^J 

dme  to-mght.  let  U3  «,y.  at  Giro's,  or  the  Hotel 
de  Paris,  and  look  in  at  th^  r    ■       , 
Mkcl»n,»  :     I  ^  ^'*"'*»  afterward? 

*ia(Jame  u  always  so  sad  " 

srfoto!ri::rU:nrw:fr--"^- 

-ainthatanother'rn'UrtnVLn' 
and  not  long  afterward  a  man  did.  ' 

That  was  Sir  Noel  Ordway.    She  had  met 

?hT^t3  toV"  "'-'  "•'^''«  "^  ^-- 

oMh  ^i^r.      ^'""''  practically  on  the  advice 
of  the  d^tmgnished  stranger  who  continu^  S 

58 


RESENTMENT 


ft.Dowherw.theye.ofb«odi„gconce™.  Tlut 
fa.  what  he  «„d  amounted  to  advice.  It  ^ 
«  .  measure,  to  show  h™  that  ,he  app^cia^' 

She  met  h.m  suddenly  at  one  of  L  many 

;^.t  there.  ■^^i'lroMors'd 

before     She  knew  she  colored  and  betrayed  « 
ndiculoua  selfK«n«;iousneM.    He  oT2^^ 
was  unruffled  and  «^ate.  Hft^  Ws  h^   S 
the  somewhat  rigid  dignity  thaf  cha^e.^' 
all  his  movements.  «"»ea 

"Mrs.  Cbpman  Walker,  I  tUnk  " 
She  acknowledged  the  words  by  a  sli«hi  in 

lunchmg  with  the  Misses  Partridge." 
Oh,  they're  there?"    ft  was  fn  .«, 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

Wlnfleld    which  will  pe,h«p.  exciue  Z  hU. 

•%ht  inchnaUon.  while  he  continued:    "n,e 
M««  P«tridge  «ked  n,e  to  „y  that  they 

-odd   be  gh«,   to  ^  you.   if  you'could  ^^ 

make  it  convenient  to  go  over.    They  wided 
S!j°!^i»^''»«'«y'dcometo.eeTort:^ 

You  d  find  then,  at  the  VilU  Victoi«.  onle 
Route  de  Prtjm." 

thrtrfie  would  ffo  at  once,  when  he  «ud  in 

'  I»nf  that  rtnick  her  as  significant: 

^ft  .J«y  plea«nt   at   Cannes-more  «, 

^wa,  too  great  Besides,  there  was  some- 
Jung  about  hun-it  might  have  been  the  ten- 
derness  of  a  man  who  himself  knew  what  suf- 
fenng  was-that  put  Wm  outside  the  region 
Jf^^resentments.     She  only  said:    "LiSd; 

if'J°^u  **  *^**  '''''°  y""  8°-    Fo'  one  thing, 
^s  furth„  amoved  from  the  atmosphere  thf 

comes  up  to  us  from-^lown  there."  Hepointed 

60 


BESENTMENT 

htSJ"*"  """^  "^  *^*  ^  *»•- 

She  knew  Uuit  u  Ae  tlmnked  him  «d  p«s.  ,1 
on  riie  .miled.  «,d  tUt  rfie  did  «.  from  l^St- 
ne«  of  heart.    Certainly  her  heart  wr     '.«- 
l«e«vy.    Itwa.IeMhe«vybecu«,ofbi.„,    i- 
«««.  becauM  of  thi.  indication  that  nc  .c  on 
««dwhatbecameofher.    She  felt «,  fursake,, 
that  ahnort  anybody'.  kindne„  would  have 
had  the  «une  effect,  almost  anybody',  can,  fcv 
her  welfare;  and  w  she  came  to  respond  to  the 
appeal  of  Noel  Ordway. 

at  the  VJla  V.ctoire.  The  Misses  Partridge 
Imew  eveiy  one."  Qf  few  people  in  eiiiC 
hem^phen,  could  the  expres«on  be  used  witt 
no  more  exaggeration.  Possessing  litUe  in  the 
way  of  means,  less  in  that  of  accomplishment,, 
and  nothing  at  all  in  the  line  of  looks,  they  had 
fonned  a  vast  circle  of  acquaintance,  chiefly  by 
a  hearty  unaffected  interest  in  each  individud 
personality.    No  one.   however  unimportant. 

rniT"'"''^  *''*'"•  Miss  Rosamond 
who  looked  IJce  a  coachman,  spent  her  time  in 
correspondence,  romiding  up  absent  friends; 
Miss  Gladys,  who  was  thin  and  angular,  coursed 

SI 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 
whatev^  neighborhood  they  happened  to  be 
n    gettmg  the  nice  people  to  come  and  ,ee 
them     For  reaaons  not  always  clear  to  the 
superfical   the   nice   people   came   and   sen 
othe«.    No  two  ladies  ever  received  so  many 
letters  of  mtroduction.  or  wrote  them.    TheJ 
Sunday  luncheons  at  Cannes  were  as  famous  as 
tneir  bunday  dmners  in  New  York 

In  New  York  Edith  had  fought  shy  of  them 
-amly  because  qhip  didn't  do  theL  j^S 
He  spoke  of  «.em  flippantly  as  "those  two  old 
flyaways.    and  would  never  go  to  their  house. 

wL^'*!!'^  ?'  ^'"^  '"""*  "'^'y.  though 
^n  she  did  she  got  a  perception  of  bh.;d 
«oc.al  mcWeness  wWoh  Chip  could  hardly 

L  w7 W.  '*  ^"^  *'^  •'"'^  ^""^  "''«  tne-  <J 
m  which  there  were  no  "sets."  and  where  one 

me    the  most  mteresting  people  of  all  walks 

Partndge.  with  their  slight  resources,  physical 
and  material,  accomplished  it.  envying  them 
somewhat  their  success.  She  wond' ri  ,e^ 
and^envied  them  less,  after  she  had  seen  them' 

Miss  Rosamond's  deep  bass  voice,  the  per- 
fect expression  of  her  red  face  and  man-like 


RESENTMENT 
way  pf  dressing,  were  the  first  influence  in  win- 
ning  her     "My  dear,  there's  the  ve^.  hIS 

fc.  you  close  b«ide  us.  where  we  couiJL;^ 
a^^  the  time.    We  stay  there  ourselves  when 

were  opening  and  closing  the  villa.  Big  gar- 
den  for  the  children-runs  right  down  to  the 
«a-and  nothmg  but  nice  people  of  your  own 

Edith  couldn't  help  the  suspicion  that  the 
dishnguished  stranger  at  Cap  d'Ail  had  in- 
^red  M.SS  Partridge's  solicitude,  but  neither 

W  ;  rf  *?"•  ^'"^  ^''^^y"  accompanied 
her  p  the  hotel  in  question,  to  bring  her  per- 
*onal  powers  to  bear  on  the  proprietor,  and  to 
help  m  the  selection  of  rooms,  so  that  next  day 
Edith  was  able  to  move  over.    Jn  this  way  it 

found   herself   seated   beside   Sir  Noel    Ord- 
way.  ■    " 

The  luncheon  party  w^  again  a  collection  of 
cosiaopohtan  odds  and  ,nds-b«t  with  a  dif- 
fprence.  There  waa  a  foreign  royalty  with  his 
morganatic  wife,  the  American  wife  of  an  Eng- 
JJ  peer,  two  or  three  notable  Bus8ia,s.  . 
French  pamter  of  international  fame,  together 
with  some  half-dozen  English  and  American, 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

'^  and  tie  young  Englishman  beside  her 
Between  him  «d  her  the  friendship  riJS 
rapidly  and  miexpectedlv  Tf  » 
pectedlythatitt^t^Sh^;!-!^- 
beyond  a«  the  possibilities  hr^aginat^ 
codd  foresee  that  he  should  faM  inl^e  ^ 
Wp  woman  who  had  had  her  tragic  exp"^ 

tiiat  he  made  hw  approaches,  in  as  far  as  !,« 
made  them  intentionallv     «!t.       j    ^    , 
didn't  ^„  ♦!,  '^°"°"f'y-    She  judged  that  he 
didn  t  do  that,  that  he  was  caught  miawares 

mg  for  kids."  and  offered  to  take  the  you^gste« 

day.    The  lads  were  to  go  with  their  govern^ 
but  when  he  drove  up  to  the  door.  ^IeS 
had  come  out  to  see  them  off.  it  seemed  rS 
b^that  she  shouldn't  accompany  them     Be- 
«des.  the  governess   was  young  and  prettr 
necessitating  an  elderly  person  for  p^^i 
propriety     It  was  partly,  too.  in  ^Wess 
ness  that  Edith  yielded  to  his  persuasion  a^ 
^tmg  on  a  thick  coat.  Jumped  in  wiSi^e' 


BESENTMENT 

He  acted  as  his  own  chauffeur,  and  they  drove 
up  the  new  road  through  the  Esterels.    Edith 
sa  beside  hzm,  and  as  they  talked  litUe  she  was 
aWe  to  observe  hm.  to  better  effect  than  on  the 
previous  day.    She  took  him  to  be  a  year  or 
two  younger  than  herself,  tall  and  slight   with 
a  stoop  he  had  probably  acquired  S  ^ 
She  had  understood  from  Miss  Partridge  that 
he  was  dehcate;   and  he  looked  it.    ^e  cir- 
cumstance  had  kept  him  from  entering  the 
army  or  gomg  into  diplomacy,  sending  hL  to 

^a  ?."?      u^  ^"*^"-    ««  -««  ""-eyed 
and  blond,  with  a  ragged  mustache  too  Ln 

to  conceal  the  rather  pathetic  line  of  the  mouth 

that^'Se^TT  ^?  ""  "PP^'  «P  «>  «l'«rt 
S  m^  tK  "^"^  ""^  "^'^'^  «^en  when 

the  mouth  was  m  repose,  gave  him  the  appear- 
ance of  an  extremely  aristocratic  rodent 

The  dnve  was  repeated  a  day  or  two  kter. 
and  longer  excursions  came  after  that-to  St. 
Raphael,  to  Valescure.  and  as  far  away  « 
Mentone  and  the  Gorges  du  Loup.  Edi" 
couldn't,  help  liking  the  young  man.  first  f^ 
hB  kmdness  to  the  children,  and  then  for  him! 
self.  For  hmiself  she  liked  him  because  he 
was  so  simple,  straightforward,  and  sincere. 
es 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
He  ^ew  confidential  «  Ume  went  on.  telling 

fl,  ^  -x^""^  *'"^  ^""^  °^  the  manor,  tad 
the  bo«  U  was  to  be  kept  out  of  a  pr^^^ 

and  away  W  England  at  the  vei/mo^;? 
o  thehuntn^g.  He  formed  the  habH  of  dC 
P  ng  m  so  frequently  to  tea  with  her.  in  t£ 

h.  m"""'';"^""  "'  *^*  ^°''^'  that  she  fanc^ 
^Mi^es  Partridge,  who  were  friends  of  Sdy 

O-^waysbegan'tolookuneasy.    She  wonderS 
rf  U|ey  had  given  the  young  man  all  the  i^^ 

mation  concerning  her  that  was  his  due 

She  made  up  her  mind  to  ask.    Once  the 
ac    w      recognised  it  would  be  a  safelrf 
n  that  any  possibilities  of  their  being^^th^ 
than  fnends  would  be  out  of  the  way     H^ 

Zchr*':."''"'^""'*^-^'^terinl 

March  by  askmg  where  she  thought  of  ^Z 
after  she  left  Cimnes.  The  childL  L!tl 
^ovei^ess  had  had  tea  with  them.  bTh^ 
allied  mto  the  garden.  Other  oc^uptts^ 
^e  sun-pavdion  had  also  wandered  out  amo.^ 
U^e  pansy  beds  and  the  blossoming  mimos^ 
Edith  took  her  time  before  answering. 

I  don  t  know."  she  said  at  last.    «Ifs  «. 
hard  for  me  to  make  plans.    You  see.  th^" 


HESENTMENT 

sSfw'"''"''^  "'  '""°  «°'''*  *«>  Sweden. 
bWiUerland.  or  Spain;    and  when  that's  the 

She  waited  a  few  seconds  before  saying.  "You 
know  about  me.  don't  you?" 

thlt^JX?^^''"™'"^"^-    "^'^^^•'- 

so,!!\'''^^/'".  "^  •^'"^""gl't  that  she  was 
jorry  she  had  raised  the  subject.  He  seemel 
to  unply  that  as  far  as  he  was  concemedThe 
P-J-nties   in  her  situation  were  of  no  ^! 

she  could  only  express  a  measure  of  rehef. 

Im  gad  of  that.    I  hoped  Miss  Partridge 
would  tell  you."  «i"uge 

r,J^\u^^^  ^"  •'^  "^y^*'  '^^  the  blunt- 
ness  that  was  curiously,  but  characteristicaUy. 

atja^mc  with  the  hesitations  of  his  generL' 
you?^°"   could   get   married   again,    couldn't 

-^  T"    ^^^  ^"^^^  helplessly. 
On,  but  you  could." 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 
"Why?" 
••Oh.  for  a  lot  of  re«ons  I  can't  taJk  about." 

inen  what  did  you  do  it  for?" 
She  nmnaged  a  .nule.  even  if  it   .as  a  fo«»d 
and    feeble    one.    She    undenrtood    what    he 
meant  by  "it." 

"I  don't  have  to  explain  that,  do  I?" 
"No  I  suppose  not."    She  hoped  he  was  go- 
mg  to  drop  the  subject,  when  he  lifted  his  hS 
tolook  at  her  with  his  rather  pathetic  blue  eyes. 

Uh.  but  I  say,  you're  not  serious  in  Uunking 
you  wouldn't,  are  you?" 

"Perfectly  serious.    I  should  never  look  on 
the  matter  as  admitting  discussion." 

"Oh,  but  it  does,  you  know." 

•'Not  for  me." 

f„J!I'"'  t'^^^  °°*  ^°'  y**"'  '^^  y«t  -night 
for— for  other  people." 

She  stiU  forced  an  unsteady  smile.     "That's 
something  I  don't  have  to  worry  about,  at  a^y 

S-ioi.^^'""^"^«°^°"'"P~P'«'» 

"I  don't  mean  other  people  in  general- 
only  m  particular." 

Iar"»  *^°°'*  ^"^  '^^  °"'"  people-in  particu- 


BESENTMENT 
"Yes,  you  do.    You  know  me  " 
"lonlyknowyou-likethat."    She  snapped 
her  fingers  so  as  to  give  Wm  an  idea  of  the  ^ 
t..^lytrans.to.y  nature  of  their  acquaintance. 
That  isn  t  the  way  I  know  you." 
Oh    you    don't    know    me    at    all.     You 
couldn't.    You're  too  young.    I  belong  to  an! 
other  generation  in  point  of  time,  and  to  ages 
ago  m  the  matter  of  experience." 
"How  old  are  you?" 
She  told  him. 

thats  nothmg.  My  mother  was  four  years 
Oder  than  „yf,,h,^„^^^g^^  That  sort 
of  thmg  often  runs  in  families  " 

She  sprang  «p^    "There's  Chippie  tramping 
all    over    that    flower -hm)      n«™  tT*- 

Chesley?"  ^""^   '^''    ^""^ 

The  negligence  of  Miss  Chesley  enabled  her 
to  make  her  escape,  and  when  he  rejoined  her 
in  the  garden  he  accepted  the  diversion  her 
ingenuity  had  fom>d.  In  a  short  time  he  took 
his  leave  with  no  more  display  of  emotion  than 
on  previous  occasions. 

But  he  left  her  troubled  and  shaken.    He 
left  her  with  the  feeling  that  the  foundations 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
of  life,  as  she  was  leading  it.  were  insecure. 
Where  she  had  thought  she  wa»  strong  and 
determined  she  began  to  see  she  was  weak  and 
irresolute.    She   began    to   sec    herself   as    a 
woman  with  such  an  instinctivr    ,eed  of  pro- 
tection that  sooner  or  later  sfc.   -vjuld  accept 
it-from  some  one.    If  from    .ny  one,   why 
not  from  this  man?    She  liked  him;   she  was 
sure  of  his  goodness  and  kindness.    He  was 
already  fond  of  tjie  children,  and  the  children 
of  him.    Moreover,  she  could  be  a  mother  to 
him.  and  he  needed  mothering,  as  any  one 
could  see.    It  might  not  be  a  romantic  marriage 
but  It  could  easily  be  an  ideal  one.  as  far  as 
anything  ideal   still   lay  within  the  range  of 
her  possibilities.    It  could  be  ideal  in  the  sense 
of  a  sincere  affection  both  on  his  side  and  hers 
aad  a  common  life  for  perhaps  higher  aims  than' 
she  had  hved  with  Chip. 

It  would  doubtless  be  the  final  stage  to 
the  process  of  making  Chip  understand.  She 
wouldnt  marry-^he  couldn't-without  some 
inner  reference  to  him.  without  a  vital  refer- 
ence to  him.  If  she  did  marry  he  would  know 
at  last  to  what  he  had  forced  her.  He  would 
have  forced  her  to  looking  to  another  man  for 

70 


RESENTMENT 
what  she  should  have  had  from  him-and  then 
he  would  be  repentant.  Surely  he  would  be 
«pentai.t  then!  K  he  wasn't  he  would  never 
be.  All  her  efforts  would  have  become  in 
vam.  She  would  feel  that  for  any  good  she 
had  accomplished  she  m.>ht  as  well  have  stayed 
with  him.  That  thought  choked  her  with  its 
implication  of  agony  escaped-and  bliss  for- 

But  it  was  looking  too  far  ahead.  Every- 
thmg  was  looking  too  far  ahead.  Noel  Ord- 
way  had  not  asked  her  to  marry  him-and 
might  never  do  so.  She  might  have  scared 
him  off.  She  hoped  she  had.  That  would  be 
simpler  She  was  not  so  inexperienced  es  to 
be  without  the  knowledge  that  marriage  with 
bun  would  raise  as  many  diflSculties  as  it  would 
settle-perhaps  more.  The  day  came  when  she 
had  to  point  that  out  to  him. 

But  it  did  not  come  at  once.  Nearly  a  week 
passed  without  his  return.  For  Edith  it  was 
u  week  of  some  disappointment,  and  a  good 
deal  of  relief.  U  she  wasn't  the  happier  for 
his  absence,  she  was  more  at  ease.  She  could 
be  at  ease  till  the  time  came  for  moving  on  in 
one  direction  or  another,  when  she  would  be 

71 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
oppressed  anew  with  the  wnse  of  her  helplew- 
new.  It  became  clearer  to  her  that  if  she 
inarried  at  aU  it  would  be  to  be  taken 
care  of. 

The  question  was  put  formally  before  her  at 
a  moment  when  she  was  least  expecting  it. 
It  was  an  afternoon  late  in  March  when  she 
was  struggling  along  the  Boulevard  du  Midi 
m  the  teeth  of  a  warm  west  wind.    On  her 
left  children  played  in  the  sands  or  threw  sUcks 
or  bruised  flowers  into  the  huge  breakers  to 
see  them  roUed  shoreward.    On  her  right  the 
palms  m  the  villa  gardens  bowed  their  heads 
eastward,  while  the  mimosas  tossed  their  yel- 
ow  branches  wildly.    Before  her  the  Esterels 
formed  a  jagged  line  of  indigo  flecked  with 
red.  above  which  masses  of  stormy  orange  cloud 
broke  along  the  edges  into  pink.    It  was  still 
far  from  the  hour  of  sunset,  though  the  glamour 
of  subset  was  gathering  in  the  air. 

She  L.ard  his  step  behind  her  scarcely  an 
mstant  before  he  spoke. 

"Oh.  I  iay.  Mrs.  Walker.  I  want  you  to 
marry  me." 

The  statement  was  so  starUing  that  in  spite 
Of  aU  her  preparatory  discussion  with  herself 

7« 


RESENTMENT 

■he  turned  on  him  tragjcajjy.    "Por  Qod'a 
■ake.  why?" 

^^  Well.  becau«  I'm  awf uUy  fond  of  you.  you 

His  expression  touched  her.  There  was  no 
m«taking  the  kindliness  in  his  eyes,  or  the 
Jook  of  rather  wan  beseeching  in  his  thin, 
f  °^^  ^«*-  ^  ^  golfing  suit  of  Harris 
tweed  he  was  not  an  unattractive  figure,  even 
11  he  wasn't  handsome. 

Again  her  words  had  little  relation  to  the 
things  she  had  thought  of  beforehand.    Her 
heart  was  so  much  with  him  that  she  spoke  with 
an  emoUon  she  had  never  shown  to  him  before. 
"Even  if  you  are.  don't  you  see,  dear  friend, 
that  you  can't  marry  me?" 
"Oh.  but  I  can,  you  know." 
She  looked  about  her  for  a  refuge  where  they 
could  talk,  finding  it  in  a  rough  shelter  designed 
for  the  protection  of  nurses  watching  children 
playmg  on  the  sands.    It  was  empty  for  the 
moment,  except  for  a  tiny,  bare-legged  girl  of 
three  or  four  crooning  over  a  big  doll.    Edith 
led  the  way.     "Come  over  here."    They  s, 
down  on  a  bench  hacked  with  initials  and  clean- 
ly dirty  with  sand.    The  litUe  girl  at  the  other 

73 


MICROCOPY   KSOIUTION    TEST   CH«>r 

(ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


_A  :JPPLIED  IM^GE    In 

=-^  1^53  East   Main   Street 

Kr.S  fochesler,   Ne*  York         14609       u^ 

^S  (^'6)   482  -  0300  -  Phone 

^=  (?I6)  2B8  -  5989  -  Fa. 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

end  of  the  bench  rolled  her  big  eyes  toward  them 
with  indifference,  continuing  to  croon  to  her  doll  • 

"Dors,  mon  enfant;  dors,  dors;  ta  mhe  est 
allee  an  hal. . .  .  Dors,  mon  enfant,  dors;  ta  mere 

est  au  theatre Tais-toi;  tais-toi;  ta  mire 

dine  au  restaurant Dors,  ma  eherie,  dors  " 

Edith  plunged  into  her  subject  as  soon  as 
they  were  seated  and  turned  toward  each  other. 
"Tell  me.    If  you  married  a  divorced  woman 
wouldn't  your  whole  position  in  England  be-^ 
be  different?" 

'•I  shouldn't  care  anything  about  that." 

"That's  not  what  I'm  asking  you.  I'm  ask- 
ing you  if  there  wouldn't  be  ways  in  which  it 
would  be  hard  for  you?" 

The  honesty  in  his  eyes  pierced  her  like  a 
pain.  "I  shouldn't  be  thinking  about  that, 
you  know.    I  should  be  thinking  about  you." 

■Well,  then,  aren't  there  ways  in  which  it 
would  be  hard  for  me?" 

"Not  any  harder  than  it  is  now.  It's  pretty 
hard,  isn't  it?" 

The  tears  sprang  into  her  eyes,  but  she  knew 
she  must  control  herself.  "Yes;  but  it's  in 
the  way  of  the  ills  I  know.  The  ills  I  know  not 
of  might  be  worse." 

71 


RESENTMENT 

"Oh,  well,  they  wouldn't  be  that,  you  know." 

"What  about  your  people?"  She  sprang 
the  question  on  him  suddenly. 

"They'd  be  all  right— in  time." 

The  qualification  was  like  a  stab.  She  spoke 
proudly.  "I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  wait  for 
that." 

"You  wouldn't  have  to  wait  for  anything. 
They  d  jolly  well  have  to  put  up  with  what  I 
dmded  to  do.  I've  got  all  the  say,  you  know. 
I  m  the  head  of  the  family." 

"Yes,  you  might  look  at  it  in  that  way;  but 
you  can  easily  see  what  it  would  be  to  me  to 
enter  a  family  where  I  wasn't  wanted." 

"That's  a  bit  strong,"  he  corrected.  "They'd 
want  you  right  enough,  once  they  knew  you 
It  would  only  be  the— the  fact  of— the— " 
She  helped  him  out.     "The  divorce." 
He  nodded  and  finished.     "That  they'd  jib 
at.    Even  then—" 

"Oh,  please  don't  think  I'm  blaming  them. 
I  should  do  exactly  the  same,  in  their  case." 

"They're  reaUy  not  half  bad,  you  know."  he 
tried  to  explain.  "Mother's  an  awfully  decent 
sort,  and  so  is  Di.  Aggie's  a  bit  cattish.  But 
then  she'll  soon  be  married.    Fellow  named 

74 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

Jenkins,  in  the  Guards.  And  then,"  he  added, 
irrelevantly,  "you're  an  American." 
"Which  is  another  disadvantage." 
"No,"  he  said,  with  emphasis.  "The  other 
way  round  when  it  comes  to  a— a—"  He 
stumbled  at  the  word,  but  faced  it  eventually: 
"When  it  comes  to  a  divorce,  you  know." 

She  looked  at  him  mistily.  "No,  I  don't 
know.  Aren't  a  divorced  Englishwoman  and 
a  divorced  American  in  very  much  the  same 
position?" 

He  hastened  to  reassure  her.  "Oh,  Lord, 
no.  Not  in  England  they  wouldn't  be.  A  di- 
vorced Englishwoman— well,  she's  in  rather  a 
hole,  you  know;  whereas  a  divorced  American 
woman— that's  natural." 

"I  see,"  she  responded,  slowly.  "It's  not 
considered  quite  so  bad." 

"Oh,  not  half  so  bad.  One  expects  an  Ameri- 
can woman  to  be  divorced— or  something." 

She  couldn't  be  annoyed  with  him  because 
he  was  so  honest  and  ingenuous.  She  merely 
said.  "So  they'd  think  me  the  rule  rather  than 
the  exception." 

"They'd  just  think  you  were  American,  and 
let  it  go  at  that.    Besides,"  he  continued,  ear- 


RESENTMENT 

nestly,  "when  a  woman's  only  been  married  in 
America — " 

"She's  been  hardly  married  at  all.    Is  tliat 
what  they'd  think  in  England?" 

"Well,  if  they'd  ever  seen  the  chap  around- 
Eut  when  they  haven't,  you  know—" 
"They  can't  believe  in  him." 
"Oh    I   don't   say   that.    But-well,   they 
wouldn  t  think  anything  about  him." 

She  shifted  her  ground  slightly.     "But  you'd 
thmk  about  him,  wouldn't  you?" 
"Me?    Why  should /.?" 
"Because  I'd  married  him  before  I'd  married 
you— for  one  thing." 

"Oh,  but  I  shouldn't  go  into  that,  you  know. 
Ihat  would  be  over  and  done  with  " 
"Would  it?" 
"Well,  wouldn't  it?" 

She  mused  silently,  while  the  little  girl  with 
the  bare  legs  continued  to  croon  to  her  doll  with 
a  kind  of  chant: 
_  "Dors,  mm  enfant,  dors.  .  .  .  Ta  mere  ne  re- 

vtendra  plus  ce  soir Elle  dine  avec  le  beau 

monsuur  que  tu  as  ru.  .  .  .  Elle  te  dira  honne 
nutt  demain.  .  .  .  Dors;  sois  sage~et  dors." 
"Even  if  it  were  over  and  done  with,"  Edith 

77 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRxVCT 
said  at  last,  "the  fact  would  remain— suppos- 
ing I  married  you— that  your  wife  had  had  a 
life  in  which  you  possessed  no  share — a  very 
living  life,  I  assure  you— and  that  her  memo- 
ries of  that  life  were  perhaps  the  most  vital 
thing  about  her." 

"Oh.  b'lt  I  say!"  he  protested.  "That's  the 
very  reason  I'm  so  fond  of  you.  I  can  see  all 
that  already.  I  shouldn't  interfere  with  it, 
you  know.  It's  what  makes  the  difference 
between  you  and  other  women.  It's  like  the 
difference  between—"  He  sought  for  a  simile. 
"It's  like  the  difference  between  a  book  that's 
been  written  and  printed,  and  has  something 
in  it,  and  a  silly  blank  book." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "I  wonder  if 
you  have  the  least  idea  of  what  you're  say- 
ing?" 

He  sought  for  a  more  effective  figure  of 
speech.  "If  you  were  walking  about  your 
place,  and  found  something  wounded,  you'd 
want  to  take  it  h.<me  and  tend  it,  wouldn't 
you,  till  you'd  put  it  to  rights  again?  And  the 
more  you  tended  it  the  fonder  of  it  you'd  be. 
But  you  wouldn't  stop  to  ask  whether  a  boy 
had  thrown  a  stone  at  it  or  whether  it  had  been 

78 


RESENTMENT 

attacked  by  its  mate.     You'd  let  all  tuat  alone 
— and  just  tend  it." 

Her  tears  were  coursing  freely  now  beneath 
her  veil.  "Is  that  really  the  way  you  feel 
about  me.'" 

He  grew  apologetic.     'Oh,  I  don't  mean  any 
Good  Samaritan   business,   don't  you  know.? 
If  I  could  look  after  you  a  bit  you'd  do  the  same 
by    me.    I'm    thinking   of    that,    too.    Look 
here,"  he  pursued,  confidentially,  but  coloring; 
"I'll  tell  you  something,  if  you  W3n't  think 
me  an  ass.    I  could  have  married  two  or  three 
girls— oh,  more  than  that!— if  I'd  wanted  to. 
But   I   could  see  what  they  were  after.    It 
wasn't  me-not  by  a  long  shot.    It  was  the 
place— Foljambe— it's    really    quite   a   decent 
place,  you  know— right  in  the  shires— and  the 
hunting.    They'd  have  thought  it  awful  luck 
to  have  to  clear  out  of  England  every  year, 
just  when  the  hunting  begins— and  stick  in 
this   bally   hole-or  go   to   Egypt.     But   you 
wouldn't."    As  she  said  nothing  for  the  min- 
ute, he  insisted,  "Would  you,  now?" 

She    shook    her    head    musingly.     "No     I 
shouldn't." 
He  looked  relieved.     "Well,  that's  just  it. 

79 


THE  LETTER  OK  THE  CONTHAC  :' 

Tliat's  just  what  I  thought."  He  colored  more 
deeply,  with  a  hect!  spot  in  each  cheek. 
"Life  isn't  all  beer  and  skittles  to  me,  don't 
you  know — and  you'd  be  the  kind  of  thing  I 
haven't  got,  don't  you  know.'"  He  leaned 
toward  her  beseechingly.     "Do  you  see  now?" 

"I  think  I  do.  You  mean  that  we'd  mutual- 
ly take  care  of  each  other." 

"Well,  that's  what  it  would  amount  to — 
not  to  say  any  more  about  my  being  so  awfully 
fond  of  you.    You  won't  forget  that." 

She  smiled  through  her  tears.  "Oh  no;  I'm 
not  likely  to  forget  it.  I  wish  I  could  tell  you — " 

But  she  broke  off  because  she  could  say  no 
more,  struggling  to  her  feet.  He  agreed  to  her 
request  that  she  should  have  time  to  think  his 
proposal  over,  and  also  that  he  should  let  her 
return  alone  to  the  hotel,  remaining  in  the 
shelter  with  the  crooning  child  long  after  she 
had  gone  away. 

But  once  she  was  out  in  the  wind  again  she 
found  it  difficult  to  give  the  matter  concen- 
trated thought.  Much  as  she  had  been  moved 
while  he  talked  to  her,  the  emotion  seemed  to 
be  blown  away  by  the  strong  air  of  reality.  It 
was  like  the  crying  in  which  she  had  sometimei 


RESENTMENT 
indulged  herself  at  a  play,  and  which  left  no 
aftermath  of  sadness.    She  could   hardly  tell 
what  aftermath  had  been  left  by  Noel  Ordway's 
words;    but  as  far  as  she  could  judge  it  had 
everything  in  it  to  touch  her  and  appeal  to 
her,  except  the  possible.    And  yet  so  much  that 
was  impossible  haa  happened  to  her  already, 
who  knew  but  that  the  next  incredible  tiling 
would  be  that  she  should  become  mistress  of 
Foljambe  Park.'    Why  not?    Since  the  haven 
waa  open  to  her,  and  Chip  had  left  the  poor 
little  craft  of  her  life  to  toss  in  a  sea  too  strong 
for  it,  why  not  creep  into  any  refuge  that  would 
receive  her?    She  would  certainly  be  driven 
sooner  or  later  into  some  such  port— then  why 
not  into  this? 

She  hurried  homeward  between  the  thunder- 
ing breakers  on  the  one  hand  and  the  tossing 
palms  on  the  other,  her  mind  in  a  state  of  storm. 
In  the  garden,  as  she  passed  toward  the  hotel, 
she  saw  Miss  Chesley  with  the  children,  but  she 
couldn't  stop  and  speak  to  them.  She  hurried. 
She  wanted  the  protection  of  her  room,  of  quiet, 
of  the  accessories  to  mental  peace.  Perhaps 
when  she  got  these  she  should  be  able  to  think 
— and  decide;  so  she  hurried  on. 

81 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

To  avoid  the  miiiri  hall,  where  people  might 
speak  to  her.  she  took  the  short  cut  through  the 
sun-pavilion,  which  would  bring  her  nearer  to 
the  stairs.  But  on  throwing  open  the  door 
she  stood  still  on  the  threshold  with  a  li;  le 
soundless  gasp.     "Oh!" 

He  came  toward  her  sedately,  the  glimmer  of 
a  smile  on  the  stamped  gravity  of  his  face.  "I 
took  the  liberty  of  waiting  for  you.  I  couldn't 
bring  myself  to  go  back  to  Cap  d'Ail  without 
knowing  how  you  were." 

As  he  held  her  hand  he  seemed  to  bend  over 
her  with  what  she  had  already  described  to 
herself  as  a  brooding  concern.    She  knew  she 
was   blushing   foolishly   and   that    her   knees 
were  trembling  under  her;   and  yet.  curiously 
enough,  the  little  craft  of  her  life  seemed  sud- 
denly to  find  itself  in  quiet  waters,  ranged  round 
by   protecting  hills.    She   was   confused   and 
sorry  and  glad  and  afraid  all  in  one  instant 
Nothing  but  the  habit  of  the  hostess,  which  was 
so  strong  in  her.  enabled  her  to  capture  a  con- 
ventional tone  and  say  the  obvious  thing: 

"I'm  so  glad  you  waited.     Won't  you  sit 
down,  and  let  me  ring  for  tea?" 


m 


HEPHOACII 

/-I  HIP  had  never  really  noticed  her  ur  til  on 
>-^  that  Sunday  morning  in  June  it  suddenly 

with  h<m  alone.  He  had  seen  her.  of  cour.,e. 
She  had  been  at  Mountain  Brook-which  was 
he  name  of  Emery  Bland's  plaee  in  New 
Hampshire-every  time  he  had  gone  there; 
)ut.  her  quuhty  being  unobtrusive,  he  had  paid 

Mr  "  «rT'u  "•    *'"^t''-">°'«-  both  Bland  and 
Mr,  Bland,  bcmg  emphatic  in  personality  and 
a  kauve.  he  had  been  the  mo..  eas.Iy  fed  to 
.gnore  th,s  reticent  girl,  whose  function  was  ap- 
parently  hm.ted  to  seeing  her  aunt  provided 
wnh  a  ,hawl.  or  her  uncle  with  a  cigar,  at  th« 
rght  opportun.t,es.    If  he  thought  of  her  at 
all.  ,t  was  as  of  the  living  spirit  of  the  furni- 
ture.     Ihe  tables  and  chairs  became  animate 
in  her,  and  articulate;   but  her  claim  to  recog- 
nition had  never  gone  beyond  the  necessity  for 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
a  Iiand-shakc  or  a  smile.  When  he  did  take  her 
hand— on  arriving,  or  on  coming  down-stairs 
in  the  morning— he  received  an  impression  of 
somctliing  soft  and  slim  and  tender;  but  the 
moment  of  pleasure  was  always  too  fleeting 
for  conscious  registration.  Similarly,  when, 
from  a  polite  instinct  to  include  her  in  the  con- 
versation, he  smiled  vaguely  in  her  direction, 
he  received  a  look  gentle  and  beaming  and  al- 
most apologetic  in  return;  but  it  was  never 
more  to  him  than  if  the  dimly  lustrous  surfaces 
of  Mrs.  Bland's  nice  Sheraton  liad  suddenly 
become  responsive.  She  made  no  demand; 
and  he  offered  no  more  than  she  asked. 

Perhaps  the  fact  that  the  girl  was  not  really 
the  niece  of  either  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Biand  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  his  tendency  to  treat  her  as 
a  negligible  quantity.  Mrs.  Bland  had  ex- 
plained the  situation  to  him  during  his  first 
visit  to  Mountain  Brook. 

"Lily  isn't  our  niece  at  all,"  she  had  said,  in 
a  tone  which  seemed  to  reproach  Lily  with  an 
inadvertancc.  "She's  no  relation  to  us  what- 
ever. We  don't  know  v  ho  she  is.  She  doesn't 
even  know  herself.  Since  you  insist,"  she  con- 
tinued, as  though  Chip  had  been  pressing  for 


REPROACH 

information,  "we  got  her  out  of  an  orphannge. 

the   year    we    built    this    house.     Mr.    Bland 

seemed   to   think    the    house    ought   to   have 

somctlimg  young  in  it;   and  so—" 

"You  nught  have  had  a  dog,"  Chip  said, 
dryly. 

"You  needn't  laugh.  It  wasn't  my  desire 
to  adopt  a  child.  I  simply  yielded  to  Mr. 
Bland,  as  I  do  in  everything.  The  only  stipu- 
lation I  made  was  that  she  should  call  us  uncle 
and  aunt.  I  couldn't  bear  to  be  called  mother 
by  a  child  who  wasn't  my  own;  but  Mr.  Bland 
IS  so  odd  that  he  wouldn't  have  cared.  I  dare 
say  you've  noticed  how  odd  he  is." 

Chip  could  see  that  Bland  might  be  odd 
from  his  wife's  point  of  view.     He  was  the  self- 
made  man  who  had  shed  the  traces  of  self- 
making.     Mrs.  Bland  was  fond  of  describing 
herself  as  a  self-made  woman;    but  the  stages 
of  the  process  by  which  she  had  "turned  her- 
self  out"  were  visible.    She  would  have  been 
disappointed  had  it  not  been  so.    Having  con- 
fessed  from  youth  upward  that  her  ambition 
was  "to  make  the  most  of  herself,"  there  had 
never,  in  her  case,  been  any  question  of  the 
ara  celare  ariem.    She  belonged  to  a  number  of 

6  U 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

women's  clubs  of  which  the  avowed  object  was 
self-improvement,"  and  attended  such  classes 
on  "current  events"  as  would  keep  her  posted 
on  the  problems  of  the  day  without  the  bore  of 
reading  the  papers.    As  a  self-made  woman  she 
also  looked  the  part,  dressing  for  breakfast  as 
she  would  like  to  be  found  in  the  afternoon, 
with  but  slight  variation  for  dinner.    In  her  full 
panoply  of  plum  or  dove  color  she  suggested 
one  of  those  knights  eternally  in  armor  who 
decorate   baronia^  halls.    Chip   considered   it 
probable  that  Emery  Bland  would  never  have 
chosen  her  as  the  life-long  complement  to  him- 
self had  he  not  taken  that  step  while  he  was 
stiU   an  obscure   "up-state"   country  lawyer 
and  she  the  dignified  young  school-teacher  who' 
stood  for  "cultivation"  in  their  little  town. 
Cultivation  had  always  been  to  Mrs.  Bland 
what  hunting  is  to  the  rider  to  hounds-the 
zest  was  in  the  chase.     The  zest  was  in  the 
chase,  and  the  quarry  but  an  excuse  for  the 
run      Over  hedges  of  lectures,  and  ditches  of 
talks,"  and  through  turnip-fields  of  serious 
ponderous  women  like  herself,  green  even  in 
winter,  and  after  being  touched  by  frost,  Mrs. 
Bland  kept  on  in  full  career,  with  "cultivation" 


REPROACH 

scudding  ahead  like  a  fox  she  never  caught  a 
glimpse  of.  and  which  her  hounds  tracked  only 
by  the  scent.    It  was  splendid  exercise,  and 
helped  her  to  feel  in  the  movement.    If  she 
failed  to  notice  that  her  husband  had  long  ago 
run  the  fleet  animal  to  earth,  and  aflixed  the 
mask  as  an  adornment  to  his  home,  it  was 
only  because  their  views  of  life  were  different. 
No  one  would  now  suppose  that  there  had 
been  a  time  in  Emery  Bland's  life  when  it  had 
been  his  aim  also  to  "cultivate  himself,"  and 
when  he  had  actually  used  the  phrase.    Be- 
tween  the  debonair,   experienced  New  York 
lawyer,  so  much  in  demand  for  cases  requiring 
discretion  and  so  capable  of  dealing  with  them 
—between  him  and  the  farmer's  boy  he  had 
been  there  was  no  more  resemblance  than  be- 
tween a  living  word  and  the  dead  root  out  of 
which  it  has  been  coined.    In  Emery  Bland's 
case  the  word  was  not  only  living,  but  liliant, 
eloquent,  aod  arresting  to  ear  and  eye.    He 
was  one  of  those  men  who  overlook  nothing 
that  can  be  counted  as  self-expression,  from 
their  dress  to  the  sound  of  their  syllables. 
Superficially  genial,  but  essentially  astute,  he 
had  made  everything  grist  that  came  to  bis 
87 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

mill,  flourishing  on  it  not  only  in  the  financial 
sense,  but  also  in  that  of  character.    It  was 
said  that  he  knew  as  many  life  histories  as  a 
doctor  or  a  priest,  and  generally  the  more 
dramatic  ones.    The  experience  had  clearly 
made  him  cynical,  but  tolerant  also,  and  hu- 
man, with  a  tendency,  as  far  as  he  was  per- 
sonaUy    concerned,    to    being   morally   strait- 
laced.    He  had  seen  so  much  of  the  picturesque 
side  of  life  that  he  could  appreciate  the  prosa- 
ic, which,  in  Chip's  explanaUon,  was  why  he 
could  stand  by  Mrs.  Bland.    Other  people's 
surfeits  of  champagne  and  ortolans  had  assured 
his  own  taste  for  plain  roast  beef.    But  he  him- 
self ordered  the  porcelain  on  which  his  simple 
fare  was  served,  and  the  wines  by  which  it  was 
accompanied,   drunk  from  fine  old   Irish  or 
Bohemian  glass. 

Chip  took  this  in  by  degrees.  His  first  ac- 
quaintance with  a  man  who  was  to  exercise  some 
influence  on  his  future  was  purely  professional. 
He  had  gone  to  him  as  an  offset  to  Aunt  Emily. 
If  the  results  of  this  move  were  indirect— 
since  Aunt  Emily  had  won  the  victory— they 
became  apparent  in  time.  They  became  ap- 
parent  when  iu  Chip's  bruised  heart,  where 


REPROACH 

everything  healthy  seemed  to  have  been  stunned, 
a  shght  curiosity  began  to  awaken  concerning 
his  new  friend's  personality. 

He  came  to  consider  him  a  friend  by  acci- 
dent-the  accident  of  a  club,  where,  finding 
themselves  sitting  down  to  dine  at  the  same 
moment,  they  had  taken  the  same  table.    Pri- 
marily, it  waa  an  opportunity  to  adjust  some 
loose  ends  of  Chip's  domestic  affairs;  incident- 
ally, they  stumbled  on  a  common  hobby  in 
Victorian  English  politics.    There  was  no  sub- 
ject on  whichEmery  Bland  was  better  informed, 
with  a  learning  that  covered  the  whole  long 
stretch  from  Lord  Melbourne  to  Lord  Salis- 
bury, and  which  he  could  garnish  with  anec- 
dote ad  libitum.    It  was  a  kind  of  conversation 
of  which  Chip,  who  had  been  brought  up  partly 
in  England,  rarely  got  a  taste  in  New  York, 
and  for  which  Bland,  on  his  side,  didn't  often 
find  an  interested  listener.    Something  like  an 
intimacy  thus  sprang  up.  but  an  intimacy  of 
the  kind  common  among  men  who  have  little 
or  no  point  of  contact  out  of  office  hours  or 
away  from  the  neutral  ground  of  the  club. 
Within  these  limits  the  meetings  had  already 
been  numerous  before  it  occurred  to  Chip— 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 
more  or  less  idly-that  whUe  Bland  knew  too 
much  of  his  sad  background,  he  knew  nothing 
of  Bland's.    An  occasional  reference  revealed 
the  lawyer  as  a  married  man,  but  beyond  that 
basic  fact  their  acquaintance  had  no  more 
attachment  to  the  main  social  structure  of  life 
than  a  floating  island  of  moss  and  flowers  has 
to  the  system  of  geological  strata.    It  was  Bland 
himself  who  took  the  first  step  in  the  direction 
of  closer  association. 
"Well,  how  are  you  getting  on?" 
He  asked  the  question  while  slipping  into  the 
seat  opposite  Chip  as  the  latter  lunched  at  the 
club,  where  they  met  most  frequently. 
"Oh.  so  so." 

"H'm.    So  so.    rAa<',  what  you  call  it." 
The  tone  implied  reproach  or  reproof  or 
expostulation.    Chip  kept  his  eyes  on  his  knife 
and  fork. 

"Well,  what  do  you  call  it?" 

"(  '',  I'm  not  obliged  to  give  it  a  name.    I 
hear  other  people  do  that." 

"And  what  do  other  people  say-«ince  you 
seem  to  want  me  to  ask  the  question?" 

"I  do.    I  think  you  ought  to  know.    Thev 
say  it's  a  pity." 

so 


BEPROACH 

Chip  took  on  the  defiant  air  of  a  bad  boy. 
They  can  say  it— and  go  to  blazes." 
"They'U  say  it.  all  right.    Don't  you  worry 
about  that.    But  I  rather  think  that  you'll 
do  the  going  to  blazes— at  this  rate." 

Chip  raised  his  haggard  eyes.  "Well,  why 
not?  What  is  there  any  better  than  blazes 
for  me  to  go  to?  Besides.it  isn't  so  awful- 
when  you've  got  nothing  else." 

"Oh,  rot.  Walker!  I'm  ashamed  of  you.  I 
can  imagine  a  man  of  your  type  doing  almost 
anythmg  else  but  taking  to  drink  "• 

Chip  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  the  habit 
acquired  in  French  schools.  "On  fait  ce  que 
Von  j,eut.  I  had  three  resources  left  to  me- 
wme.  woman,  and  song.  For  song  I've  no  ear; 
for  woman-well,  that's  all  over;  so  it  came 
down  to  Hobson's  choice." 

"Hobson's  choice  be  blowed!  Walker's 
choice!  And  you've  just  time  enough  left  to 
cast  about  for  a  set  of  alternatives.  Why  I've 
seen  scores  of  men  in  your  fix;  aad  of  some  of 
them  it  was  the  salvation." 
"And  what  was  it  of  the  others?" 
"Hell.  But  it  was  a  heU  of  their  own 
making." 

n 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

"All  right.  I'm  willing  to  accept  the  word. 
It's  a  hell  of  my  own  making— but  it's  hell,  just 
the  same." 

"But,  good  Lord!  man,  even  if  it  is  hell,  you 
don't  want  to  wallow  in  it." 

Chip  smiled  ruefully.  "Oh,  I  like  it.  Kind 
of  penance,  I  like  it  as  medieval  sinners  used 
to  like  a  hair  shirt." 

"Yes;  but  the  hair  shirt  was  kept  out  of 
sight.  You're  parading  your  penance,  as  you 
caU  it,  before  the  world.  See  here.  Walker, 
why  don't  you  coine  up  and  spend  the  week- 
end with  me  in  New  Hampshire?  My  wife 
would  like  to  have  you.  To-day  is  Friday, 
and  I  go  up  to-morrow  morning.  A  Sunday 
in  the  country  would  do  you  good." 

Chip  refused,  but  he  long  remembered  why 
he  retracted  his  refusal.  It  was  the  look  of 
his  apartment  when  he  returned  to  it  that 
night.  It  was  an  apartment  in  a  house  at  the 
comer  of  Madison  Avenue  and  a  street  in  the 
Thirties,  dedicated  to  the  use  of  well-to-do 
bachelors.  It  had  been  a  slight  mitigation  in 
the  collapse  of  life  as  he  had  built  it  up.  that 
rooms  in  so  comfortable  a  refuge  should  have 
been  free  for  him.    He  had  furnished  them  with 

S2 


REPROACH 

«ome  care;  and  after  his  first  distress  had  worn 
off  a  little  had  found  a  measure  of  lawless  satis- 
faction in  a  return  to  the  old  unmarried  ways. 
But  on  th!;  particular  evening  the  aspect  of 
the  place  appalled  him  from  the  minute  he 
turned  his  latch-key  in  the  lock.     Under  the 
stimulus  of  Bland'.c  counsels  he  had  come  home 
early,  which  was  in  itself  a  mistake.    It  was 
scarcely  nine  o'clock.     There  was  an  hour  or 
an  hour  and  a  half  to  pass  before  he  could  think 
of  going  to  bed.    Any  such  interval  as  that  was 
always  the  hardest  feature  in  the  day  for  him. 
But  what  smote  him  specially  now  was  the  air 
of  emptiness  and  loneliness.    It  met  him  as 
an  odor  in  the  stale  smeU  of  the  cigar  he  had 
smoked  on  coming  up-town  from  the  office,  and 
which  still  lingered  in  the  rooms.    He  had  for- 
gotten to  open  a  window,  and  the  house  valet 
whose  duty  it  was  to  "tidy  up."  had  evidently 
gone  out. 

In  the  small  hall  into  which  Chip  entered 
there  was  a  bookcase  with  but  two  or  three 
odds  and  ends  of  books  in  it,  for  his  habits  of 
reading  had  dropped  away  from  him  with  every- 
thing else.  In  the  sitting-room  one  brown  shoe 
stood  on  the  hearth-rug  before  the  empty  fire- 

98 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
place;  the  other  on  the  center-table,  a  collar 
and  necktie  beside  it.    The  soiled  shirt  he  had 
thrown  off  lay  on  the  couch,  a  sleeve  dragging 
on  the  floor.    On  the  mantelpiece,  which  he 
had  at  first  consecrated  as  a  shrine  for  the 
photographs  of  Edith  and  the  children,  and 
flanked    by   two    silver   candlesticks   like   an 
altar,  there  had  intruded  an  open  box  of  per- 
fectos,  an  ash-tray  that  still  held  the  butt-end 
of  a  cigar,  and  an  empty  tumbler  smelling 
of  whisky.    There  were  traces  of  cigar  ashes 
eveiywhere-on  .the  arms  of  the  easy-chairs, 
on  the  rugs,  and  on  the  terra-cotta  tiles  of  the 
hearth.    For  the  rest  the  room  was  a  litter  of 
newspapers,  aa  the  bedroom  which  opened  off 
it  was  a  litter  of  clothes. 

He  was  not  disorderly;  he  was  only  care- 
less, and  incapable  of  creating  order  for  him- 
self. Disorder  shocked  him  profoundly.  He 
always  sat  down  in  the  midst  of  it,  helpless,  but 
with  a  sense  of  inner  misery.  And  so  he  sat 
down  in  it  now.  "My  God!"  he  said  to  him- 
self, summing  up  in  the  ejaculation  all  the 
wretchedness  he  had  wrought,  or  that  had  been 
wrought,  about  him. 

It  was  at  such  minutes  that  his  mind  reverted 
M 


RKPROACH 

to  Edith,  with  renewed  stupefacUon  over  what 
»he  had  done.  Stupefaction  waa  the  word. 
Beflection  on  the  subject  only  left  him  the 
more  hopelessly  bewildered.  If  she  hadn't 
loved  him  her  course  might  have  been  explic- 
able. As  it  was,  he  found  himself  driven  to  a 
choice  between  mental  aberration  on  her  part 
and  a  witch's  spell,  inclining  to  the  latter- 
with  the  witch  in  the  guise  of  Aunt  Emily. 

Not  that  he  absolved  himself.    He  made 
no  attempt  to  do  that.    But  he  looked  upon 
his  offense  as  of  the  kind  that  naturally  calls 
for  mercy  rather  than  severity.    What  was 
the  letter  of  the  contract  in  comparison  with 
the  spirit?-and  he  had  kept  the  spirit  sacred- 
ly.   Of  course  he  had  done  wrong.    Who  in 
thunder,  he  asked.  impaUently,   ever  dem'ed 
that?    But  how  many  men  had  not  done  wrong 
in  the  same  way?    Very  few,  was  his  answer. 
The  answer  was  the  essence  of  his  defense- 
a  defense  which,  according  to  all  the  laws  of 
human  nature  and  common  sense.  Edith  should 
have  accepted.    That  she  shouldn't  accept  it. 
or  couldn't,  or  wouldn't,  passed  his  compre- 
hension. 

As  a  rule,  he  tried  not  to  think  of  it.    He 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 
tried  not  to  think  of  it  by  filling  up  the  time 
with  something  else.    When  there  had  been 
nothing  else  to  fill  up  the  time  he  had  stupe- 
fied himself  with  drink.    He  drank  at  first, 
uot  because  he  liked  drinking,  but  because  it 
dulled  his  brain,  his  heart.    It  didn't  excite 
him;  on  the  contrary,  it  brought  him  to  a  state 
of  lethargy  which,  if  he  was  at  the  club,  made 
him  willing  to  go  home,  or.  if  he  was  at  home, 
made  it  possible  for  him  to  go  to  bed  and  sleep. 
It  was  only  within  a  month  or  so  that  he  had 
begun  to  suspect' that  other  people  noticed  it; 
and  even  then  he  hadn't  been  sure  until  Bland 
had  told  him  so  that  day. 

He  had,  consequently,  come  back  to  his  room 
in  the  possession  of  his  faculties,  but  with  a 
feeling  of  sometWng  unfulfilled  that  emphasized 
his  desolation.  He  perceived  then  that  a  habit 
was  beginning  to  form  in  him  with  a  tenacity 
which  it  might  be  difficult  to  counteract.  After 
all,  would  anything  be  gained  by  counteracting 
it?  He  had  known  fellows  who  drank  them- 
selves to  death;  and  except  in  the  last  dreadful 
stages  it  hadn't  been  so  bad.  They  had  cer- 
tainly got  their  fun  out  of  it,  even  if  in  the  end 
they  paid  high.    He  was  paying  high— and 

S8 


REPROACH 

perhaps  getting  nothing  at  all.     Wouldn't  it 
be  better  if  he  went  off  this  minute  somewhere 
and  made  a  night  of  it?-made  a  night  which 
would  be  but  the  begimiing  of  a  long  succession 
of  nights  of  the  same  kind?    Then  when  he 
was  nimed  beyond  recovery,  or  in  his  grave 
Edith  would  know  what  she  had  done  to  him. 
He  had  tried  every  other  way  of  bringing  it 
home  to  her  but  that.    That  might  succeed 
where  argument  had  failed.    She  couldn't  have 
a  mind  so  much  astray  as  not  to  be  sorry  when 
she  saw,  or  heard  of,  the  wreck  she  would  have 
niade  of  him. 

It  was  worth  thinking  of.  and  he  sat  and 
thought  of  it.     He  tried  to  conjure  up  the 
picture  of  himself  as  really  besotted— he  was 
not  besotted  as  yet,  even  when  the  worst  was 
saidl-degraded.  revolting.    He  rose  to  take 
a  cigar,  to  help  his  imagination  in  the  task  to 
which  he  had  set  it,  but  he  remembered  that 
the  cigar  suggested  a  whisky-and-soda  to  go 
with  it,  and  there  was  a  bottle  of  Old  Piper  in 
the  cupboard.    He  fell  buck  into  his  seat  again 
with  the  longing  unsatisfied,  but  he  continued 
his  dream.    It  was  so  pleasant  a  dream-that 
IS.  there  were  so  many  advantages  to  the  course 
97 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

he  though'  f  taking,  that  he  ended  by  ipring- 
ing  to  hi«  feet  and  naying,  almost  ale  ad,  "By 
God.  I'll  do  it." 

The  resolution  being  formed,  there  was  m 
large  selection  of  ways  and  means  of  putting 
it  into  execution.  He  could  do  this  or  that. 
He  could  go  here  or  there.  It  was  a  bewilder- 
ment of  choice  that  saved  him.  He  sat  down 
again. 

No;  when  it  came  to  the  point  he  wasn't 
equal  to  it.  It  was  not  the  end  he  shrank 
from,  but  the  means— the  places  to  which  he 
would  have  to  go,  the  people  he  would  have  to 
consort  with.  He  knew  just  enoujh  of  them 
to  be  sickened  in  advance.  It  was  with  a  sense 
of  fleeing  to  escape  that  he  hurried  to  the  tele- 
phone and  called  up  Emery  Bland,  asking  to 
be  allowed  to  accept  his  invitation. 

He  arrived  at  Moimtain  Biwk  late  on  an 
afternoon  in  early  June,  just  as  the  sun,  hover- 
ing above  the  point  of  its  setting,  was  throwing 
an  almost  horizontal  light  on  the  northern  and 
western  slopes  of  Monadnock.  The  mountain 
raised  its  majestic  mass  as  the  last  and  success- 
ful effort  of  a  tumbling,  climbing  wilderness 
of  hills.    Scattered  amid  the  upward-sweeping 


REPROACH 

•twtche.  of  maple  and  oak.  groves  of  spruce 
and  pine  had  the  effect  of  passing  rain^Iouds. 
In  the  clear  air.  against  the  clear  sky,  every 
tree-top  on  the  indented  ridges  stood  out  like 
a  litUe  pinnacle.  Ull  with  a  long,  downward 
curve,  both  gracious  and  grandiose,  the  moun- 
tainside fell  to  the  edge  of  a  gem-like,  broken- 
shored  lake.    It  was  a  world  extraordinarily 
green  and  clean.    Its  cleanness  was  even  more 
amaang   than   its   greenness.    The   unsullied 
freshness  'f  a  new  creation  seemed  to  lie  on  it 
all  day  long.    It  was  a  world  which  suggested 
no  past  and  boded  no  futur. .    Its  transparent 
air.  m  which  there  was  not  a  shred  of  atmosphere 
lU  high  lights,  and  long  shadows,  and  restful' 
clambering  woods,  and  singing  birds,  and  sweet,' 
strong  winds  were  like  those  of  some  perpetual, 
paradisical  present,  with  no  stoiy  to  tell,  and 
none  that  would  ever  be  enacted.    It  was  a 
world  in  which  Nature  seemed  to  hold  herself 
aloof  from  man,  refusing  to  be  tamed  by  him, 
rejecti^rf  his  caress,  keeping  herself  serene,  in- 
violate,  making  his  presence  incongruous  with 
her  sanctity. 

It  was  this  incongruity  that  struck  Chip  first 
of  all.    Not  that  there  were  any  of  the  unap- 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

proachable  grandeurs  of  the  Alps  or  the  Selkirks 
nor  anything  that  towered  or  terrified  or  over- 
awed All  the  hilly  woodland  was  smiling  and 
fnendly-but  remote.  Man  might  buy  a  piece 
of  ground  and  camp  on  it;  but  if  he  had  sensi- 

Jat  eluded  him.  the  real  thing-withdrawB. 
He  could  be  on  the  spot,  but  he  could  never  be 
of  .t-not  any  more  than  he  could  give  his 
dweUmg  the  au-  of  sprmging  from  the  soil. 

Chip  noticed  ,that.  too-the  intrusive  aspect 
of  any  kmd  of  roof  that  man  could  make  to 
cover  him  unless  it  were  a  wigwam.    Emezy 
Bland  had  tried  to  temper  this  resentment  of 
the  landscape  to  what  was  not  indigenous  to  it- 
self by  maJcmg  the  Imes  of  his  shelter  a.  simple 
and  as  straight  as  possible.    He  was  from  L 
first  apologetic  to  the  Spirit  of  the  Mountam. 
a^  who  would  say.  "Hang  it  all.  you've  tempted 
nie  here,  but  I'll  outrage  you  as  little  as  I  can  » 
So  he  perched  his  long,  white  house.  ItaUan  in 
style  If  ,t  had  style  at  all.  on  the  top  of  a  knoll 
whence  he  could  look  far  into  green  depths, 
with  nothing  in  the  way  of  excrescence  but  a 
tile-paved  open-air  dining-room  at  one  end. 
and  a  shady  spot  of  similar  construction  at 

100 


REPROACH 

the  other,  getting  his  effects  fK,m  proportion. 
Somethmg  in  the  way  of  lawn  and  garden  he 
wa^  obliged  to  have,  and  Mrs.  Bland  had  in- 
sisted on  a  pergola.    He  fought  the  pergola 
for  a  year  or  two.  but  Mrs.  Bland  had  had  her 
way.    A  country  house  without  a  pergola,  she 
sa,d.  was  something  she  had  never  heard  of 
A  nne  qud  non  was  what  she  called  it.    So  be- 
yond the  square  of  lawn  with  its  border  of 
flowers  tho  pergola  stretched  its  row  of  trim 
wh,te  wooden   Doric  pillars,  while   over   the 
latticed  roof  and  through  it  hung  bine  and  vine 
grape,  wistaria,  and  kadsu.    Below  the  pergola' 
the  land  broke  to  a  brook  that  gurgled  through 
copses  of  alder,  tangles  of  wild  raspberry,  and 
dumps  of  blueberry  and  goldenrod.  carrying 
he  waters  of  the  lake  to  the  Ashuelot.  which 
bore  them  to  the  Connecticut,  which  swept 
them  southward,  till  quietly,  and  almost  as 
unobserved  by  the  human  eye  a^  when  they 
rose  m  the  bosom  of  the  hills,  they  fell  into  the 
sea. 

As  there  was  no  other  guest.  Chip  was  al- 
lowed to  do  as  he  pleased.  What  he  pleased 
was  chiefly  to  sit  in  the  pergola,  where  the 
mauve  petals  of  the  wistaria  were  dropping 


■I  ' 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

about  him.  and  fill  his  gaze  with  the  mys+ic 
peace  of  the  mountain.    On  Sunday  morning 
the  three  Blands  went  to  church,  leaving  him 
m  sole  possession  of  this  green,  cool  world, 
with  its  quality  of  interpenetrating  purity.    He 
took  a  volume  of  some  ambassador's  "Recol- 
lections" from  his  host's  shelves  of  Victorian 
memoirs;  but  he  never  opened  it.    He  also  took 
a  cigar,  but  he  didn't  smoke.    He  only  looked— 
looked  without  effort,  almost  without  conscious- 
ness-up  into  the  high  wonderlands  of  peace, 
whence  whatever  was  brooding  there  seemed 
to  steal  into  his  soul  and  cleanse  it.    It  was  this 
sense  of  cleansing  that  he  carried  back  as  a  sort 
of  possession  to  New  York— that  and  the  fact 
imparted  by  Mrs.  Bland  during  the  afternoon, 
regarded  as  unimportant,  and  yet  retained,  that 
Lily  Bland  was  not  their  niece. 

He  returned  to  Mountain  Brook  twice  during 
that  summer,  and  in  June  of  the  following  year 
It  was  during  this  last  visit  that  the  girl  who 
had  been  to  him  hitherto  no  more  than  the  liv- 
ing element  of  the  background  gave  him  the 
impression  that  she  was  seeking  an  opportunity 
to  speak  to  him. 
Throughout  Saturday  it  had  been  an  im- 


REPROACH 
pression  almost  too  faint  to  be  recorded;   but 
t  was  s-g^^cant  to  Mm  that  on  Sunday  morn 
mg  she  didn't  go  to  church.    She  shared  the 
house  with  hi-m.  therefore,  a  fact  of  which  h 
wa^  scarcely  aware  tiU  he  saw  her  i.  possession 
of  the  pergola.    W,h  a  book  in  her  hand  she 
had  esUbhshed  herself  in  a  chair  not  far  from 
^at  whidi  by  preference  he  had  made  bs  oZ 
The  act  roused  his  curiosity;  but  when  he.  Z 

sue  didn  t  keep  km  in  suspense. 

She  closed  her  novel  as  he  approached,  look- 
ing up  at  him  with  simple  directness.  "IVe 
something  to  tell  you." 

Behind  the  attention  he  gave  to  these  words 

Wked  at  hei^which  he  had  rarely  done^ 
you  saw  she  was  pretty.    Her  white  skin  had 
a  lummosity  like  that  of  satin,  and  the  mouS 
was  sweet  with  a  timid,  apologetic  tenderness 
The  glances  one  got  from  her  were  almost  too 

faiew  they  must  be  blue.    Her  hair  had  been 

was  of  that  hue  for  which  there  is  no  English 
word,  but  which  the  PVench  caU  cendrf-^T, 

108 


lii 


THE   LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

something  between  flaxen  and  brown,  but  with 
no  relation  to  eithei--that  might  have  been 
bleached  by  a  "treatment"  only  for  its  unmis- 
takable gleam  of  life.  It  waved  naturally  over 
the  brows  from  a  central  parting,  and  massed 
Itself  into  a  great  coil  behind.  She  was  dressed 
simply  in  white  linen,  with  a  belt  of  "watered" 
blue  silk,  and  neat,  pointed  cuffs  of  the  same 
material. 

Instinctively  he  knew  that  what  she  had  to 
tell  him  must  be  important,  for  otherwise  she 
would  not  have  come  out  of  the  shy  depths 
mto  which,  like  the  Spirit  of  the  Mountain,  her 
hfe  seemed  to  be  withdrawn.  What  it  could 
be  he  was  unable  even  to  guess  at.  He  smiled, 
however,  and,  taking  a  casual  tone  so  as  not  to 
strike  too  strong  a  note  at  first,  he  said,  as  he 
sat  down,  "Have  you?" 

She  continued  to  speak  with  the  same  simple 
directness.  "It's  about  some  one  you  used  to 
know." 

He  grew  more  grave.  "Indeed?  I  should 
hardly  have  supposed  that  you  could  know 
any  one— whom  I  used  to  know?" 

"I  do.    I  know—    You   won't  mind 
speaking  right  out,  will  you?" 


my 


REPROACH 
;;0f  cou«e  not.    Say  anything  you  like." 
JVell.  I  know  Miss  Maggie  Clare." 
Great   God!"    He  sank   deeper   into   his 
w.cker  arm-chair    throwing  one  ?eg  ove^  i 
up  at  her  from  under  his  brows 
turner-  "^^..r^'^y  °^  her  bearing  was  undis- 
turb-         Ive   got  a  message  to  you  from 

He  was  unable  to  keep  the  note  of  resent- 
ment out  of  his  voice.     "What?" 

"She's  very  ill.  I  think  she's  going  to  die 
She  thmks  so  herself.  She  wants  to  know  tf- 
if  you'd  go  and  see  her." 

He  slipped  down  deeper  into  his  chair,  his 

^^of":'  -"''r'^^-  '*-- <^-te  like  the 
act  of  cowering.  It  was  long  before  he  spoke. 
When  he  did  so  the  tone  of  resentment  w^ 

TnTtotS"  "^^^^^^  '-«—''-  «he^ 
"I  think  she  does.  In  fact,  it's  the  only 
thjng  she  does  realize  very  clearly  now.  She 
talks  of  rt  continually.  i„  her  dreamy  way- 
but  a  way  that's  quite  heartbreaking.  I  ^  Jlv 
thmk  that  if  you  were  to  see  her-''  ^ 

He  looked  up  under  his  lids  and  brows  as 

lOj 


THE  LKTTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 
shehesfteted.  "Well?"  The  tone  was  as  sav- 
age as  courtesy  would  let  him  make  it. 

"That  you'd  forgive  her." 

His  body  bounded  to  an  upright  attitude, 
his  hands  thrust  deep  into  pockets.  "No." 
If  the  word  had  been  louder  it  would  have  been 
a  shout.     "I  shall  never  forgive  her." 

There  was  no  change  in  her  sweet  reason- 
ableness. "I  don't  see  what  you  gain  by 
that." 

"I  gain  this  much— that  I  don't  do  it." 
"I  still  can't  see  that  it  makes  your  situation 

any  better,  while  it  makes  hers  a  good  deal 

worse." 

"If  hers  is  worse,  mine  M  better.  The  woman 
deliberately  wrecked  my  life  after  I'd  been 
kind  to  her — ^for  years."' 

"The  poor  tlung  didn't  do  it  deliberately. 
Mr.  Walker.  She  did  it  because  she  couldn't 
help  it— because  she  loved  you  so." 

He  shook  himself  impatiently.  "Ah.  what 
kind  of  love  is  that?" 

The  audacity  of  her  response— the  curious 
audacity  of  shyness-seemed  to  him  extraor- 
dinary only  when,  later,  he  thought  it  over. 
"I  dare  say  it  isn't  a  very  high  kind  of  love— 

106 


REPROACH 

but  there  was  no  quesUon  of  its  being  that- 
from  the  first.    Waa  there?" 

"All  the  more  reason  then  why  she  should 
have  kept  where  she  belonged." 

"Yes.  of  course.  And  yet  it's  difficult  for 
love  to  keep  itself  where  it  belongs  when  it's 
very— very  consuming." 

Hfe  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  eying  her.  If 
he  spoke  roughly  it  was  only  because  she  had 
roused  all  his  emotions  on  his  own  behalf,  as 
well  as  a  faint  subconscious  interest  in  herself 
I^k  here.  Miss  Bland.  How  much  do  you 
know  about  this?" 

"Oh.  I  know  all  about  it."  she  assured  him 
hurrymg  to  explain,  in  answer  to  something 
she  saw  m  his  face:  "Uncle  Emery  didn't  tell 
me.  I  read  it  first  in  the  papers-you  remember 
there  was  a  lot  of  talk  about  it  in  the  papers- 
and  then  every  one  was  talking  of  it.  I  couldn't 
help  knowing.  Uncle  Emery."  she  added, 
only  told  me  one  tiny  little  thing,  which 
couldn  t  do  any  one  any  harm." 
"And  that  was—?" 

"Miss  Clare's  address.  I  asked  him  for  it 
when  I  found  that  I-that  I  wanted  to  go  and 
see  her." 

lOT 


p 


THB  LETTfiH  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
"And  why  on  earth  .hould  you  want  to  go 
and  see  her-a  young  girl  Hke  you?" 

Her  blush  was  like  a  color  from  outside  re- 
fleeted  in  the  soft  luster  of  her  skin  as  a  t.^ 
of  sunset  may  be  caught  by  the  petaU  of  cer- 
tam  white  flowers. 

"I  had  a  reason.  It  wasn't  doing  any  one 
any  harm  .'  she  repeated,  "not  even  you."  L 
^rtter  self-defense  she  added:  "Uncle  Emery 
didnt  disapprove,  and  I've  never  told  Aunt 
W    But  IVe  always  been  glad  I  .tT- 

"Why?" 

"Because  she's  a  sort  of  charge  of  Uncle 
Emery  s.  for  one  thing-since  you've  put  her 
nhiscare.    I  help  Am  a  little  bit.    And  then 
tte  s«ter  she  lives  with-you  knew  weM  gS 
her  to  hve  with  her  sister,  didn't  you?-isn't 
very  kind  to  her.    It's  Just  the  mo' ey!    Zl 
tien     she  contmued.  the  soft  color  deepening. 
I  had  another  reason-more  personal-that 
I  d  rather  not  say  anything  about." 

"I  can't  imagine  anything  in  the  whole  bad 
business  that  could  be  personal  to  you." 

^o.  of  course  you  can't.    It's  only  person- 
al  by  association-by  imagination,  probably." 


REPROACH 
Sh,  B«d.  nothing  clear.,  by  adding:    "You 

tn:w:r^"^""^'^^--'-^-- 

He  nodded. 

"I  don't  know  who  ray  mother  was.    But 
whoever  she  was-I'm  sorry  for  her." 

He  began  to  get  her  idea.     "You're  prob- 
ably quite  wrong."  he  said,  kindly;  "„„d Itil 
you  know  you're  right  I  shouldn't  let  fancies 
oi  that  sort  run  away  with  me." 
"Oh    I  don't.     And  yet  you  can  see  that 

I  don't  n* "' "'  "'•'  "'^^'^  ^''«— ««. 

I  don  t  feel  supenor  to  her.  It's  like  being  a 
gipsy-George  Eliot's  Fedalraa.  for  instance- 
adopte^t  by  a  kind  family,  but  knowing  she's 
a  giPV  just  the  same." 

He  brought  his  knowledge  of  the  world  to 
bear  on  her.  "I  assure  you  you're  not  in  the 
least  like  that  kind  of  gipsy." 

"Neither  was  Fedalma  li:.e  her  kind;  and 
yet  when  she  could  do  something  for  them  she 
went  to  them  and  did  it." 

"How  old  are  you?"  he  said,  abruptly,  ask- 
ing the  same  question  which  but  a  few  weeks 
before  Noel  Ordway  had  put  to  Edith,  a^in 
much  the  same  way. 

108 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
"We  caU  it  twenty-three— because  we  keep 
-  /  birthday  on  the  date  on  which  Uncle  Emery 
aid  Aunt  Zena  took  me;  but  I  must  be  nearer 
twenty-five." 

He  looked  at  her  more  attentively  than  he 
had  ever  done.    She  was  not  really  shy;   she 
wasn't  even  reserved;  but  she  was  repressed- 
repressed  as  any  one  might  be  who  lived  under 
the  weight  of  Mrs.  Bland's  protesting,  grudging 
kindliness.    It  came  back  to  him  now.  the  tone 
in  which  she  had  said,  a  year  earlier,  that  she 
couldn't  be  called  mother  by  a  child  who  didn't 
belong  to  her.    How  that  must  have  been 
rubbed   in"   to  the  poor  girl   before  him! 
Other  thmgs,  too,  came  back  to  him,  especially 
on  Bland's  part  certain  stolen  moments  of  ten- 
derness toward  the  girl,  that  had  been  inter- 
rupted in   Chip's  presence  by  a  peremptory 
voice,  saying.  "Now.  Emery,  don't  spoil  the 
child,"  or  "Lily,  dear,  can't  you  find  anything 
better  to  do  than  tease  your  uncle?"    In  it  all 
Chip  had  found  two  subjects  of  wonderment: 
first,  the  strange  egoism  of  this  middle-aged 
woman  who  could  see  nothing  in  the  expansion 
of  her  husband's  affections  but  what  was  stolen 
from  herself;  and  then,  the  extraordinary  freak 

110 


REPROACH 
of  marital  loyalty  that  could  keep  a  man  like 
Emeor  Bland,   with   his  refinement  and  hi, 
knowledge  of  the  world,  true  to  a  woman  whom 
he  had  once  loved,  no  doubt,  in  a  youthful  way. 
but  who  was  now  his  inferior  by  eveiy  token  of 
character.    A  good  enough  woman  she  was  of 
her  hnd:    but  it  was  no  more  her  husband's 
^d  than  .t  was  that  of  the  gods  immortal. 
What  was  the  secret  that  kept  these  unequal 
yoke-fellows  together,  sympathetic,  and  toler- 
ably  happy,  when  he  and  Edith,  who  were  made 
for  each  other,  had  by  some  force  of  mutual 
expulsion  been  thrust  apart?    Bland  himself 
was  o  the  type  which,  in  the  language  that  was 

Chip  would  have  called  charmeur;  and  yet  be 
drfen^l  to  this  Second-rate  woman,  and  Ln! 
sidered  her.  and  even  loved  her  in  a  placid. 
steady.go.ng  way.  submitting  at  times  to  her 
dictation.    Chip   couldn't   understand   it     If 
he  hmself  had  been  married  to  Mrs.  Bland- 
But  that  was  unthinkable.    What  wasn't  un- 
thmkable.  and  yet  became  the  more  bewilder- 
ing the  more  he  tried  to  work  the  problem  out. 
was  that  he  himself  had  failed  to  keep  for  his 
own  the  woman  who  suited  him  in  eveiy  respect 
lu  ' 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 
whose  love  he  poswesaed  and  who  posseased 
hi*,  who  WM  happy  with  him  and  he  with  her, 
while   Emery  Bland  had  contrived  to  make 
the  most  of  the  estimable  but  rather  coarse- 
gramed  lady  who  sat  at  the  head  of  his  Uble, 
and  have  a  truly  enviable  life  with  her.    No 
one  could  be  more  keenly  aware  of  the  lady's 
shortcomings,  which  lay  within  the  realm  of 
taste    and    intelligence,   than   Bland    himself. 
What  was  his  secret?    Wa,  it  a  principle,  or 
was  It  nothing  but  a  lucky  accident?    Was  it 
•omething  in  a  cast  of  character  or  a  tenet  of 
a  creed,  or  was  it  what  any  one  could  emulate? 
These  thoughts  and  questions  passed  rapidly 
through  Chip's  mind,  not  for  the  first  time, 
during  the  two  or  three  minutes  in  which  there 
was  no  somd  about  them  but  the  murmur  of 
the  brook,  the  humming  of  insects,  and  the 
whisper  of  the  summer  wind  through  millions 
of  trees. 

He  reverted  to  Maggie  Clare,  the  timbre  of 
his  voice  again  growing  harder.  "What's  the 
matter  with  her?" 

She  was  singularly  gentle.  "I  suppose  it 
could  be  described  most  accurately  as  a  broken 
heart." 

IM 


REPROACH 

He  fluked  hoUy.    "Oh.  don't  «,y  that." 
he  cned.  as  if  he  had  been  «tung. 

"I  .houldn't  say  it  if  it  didn't  answer  your 
question."  ' 

"/  didn't  break  her  heart."  he  declared,  in 
Marp  aggressiveness  of  self-defense. 

"Oh  no.  Even  she  doesn't  think  so.  The 
poor  thing  hasn't  much  mind  left,  as  you  know- 
but  what  she  has  is  concentrated  on  that  point 
-that  you  were  not  to  blame  in  anything. 
Please  don't  think  that  I'm  in  any  way  hinting 
at  such  an  accusation." 

He  looked  at  her  stupidly.     "Then  if  her 
neart  s  broken,  what's  broken  it?" 

"The  circumstances.  I  suppose.  You  don't 
seem  to  understand  that  the  poor  soul  must 
iong  ago  have  reached  a  point  where  her  love 
for  you  was  absolutely  the  only  thing  she  had." 
Agam  he  seemed  to  shake  himself,  as  though 
to  nd  his  body  of  something  that  had  fastened 
on  It.  "I  never  tuked  her  to  love  me  like  that. 
I  never  wanted  it." 

She  smiled,  faintly  and  sweetly.    "Oh  well 
that  wouldn't  make  any  difference.    Love  gives 
Itself.    It  doesn't  wait  for  permission.    I  should 
thmk  you'd  have  known  that." 
us 


:■:  i; 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

He  leaned  forward,  an  arm  resting  on  one 
knee.  While  he  reflected  he  broke  into  the 
tuneless,  almost  inaudible,  whisUing  Edith 
used  to  know  so  well.  "I  said  I'd  never  see 
her  agam,"  he  muttered,  as  the  result  of  his 
meditation. 

"May  I  ask  if  that  was  a  promise  to  any  one. 
or  if  it  was  something  you  just  said  to  yourself 
and  about  which  you'd  have  a  right  to  change 
your  mind?" 

He  continued  to  mutter.  "I  said  it  to— to 
my  wife." 

"As  a  promise?  Please  forgive  me  for  ask- 
ing. I  shouldn't,  only  that  the  request  of  a 
dying  woman — " 

"I  said  it,"  he  admitted,  unwillingly;  "but 
rt  wasn't  exactly  a  promise.  My  wife  said-" 
He  stopped  and  bit  his  lip.  "She  said  she  didn't 
care." 

"You  can'tgo  by  that.  Of  course  she  did  care." 
"Then  if  she  cared,  I'd  let  twenty  women 
die,  whoever  they  were — " 

She  rose  with  dignity.  "That  must  be  for 
you  to  decide,  Mr.  Walker.  I've  given  you  the 
message  I  was  charged  with.  It  isn't  a  matter 
in  which  I  could  venture  to  urge  you." 

m 


REPROACH 
He   too.  rose.    "You  do  urge  n.,,"  f,  .^-d 

eyT  "I'tf  'r  *'"'''^'  •'"*  ^'^^^y-  -  the 
eyes.       I  m  not  so  sure  that  I  do.    The  whole 

«u„g.  too  sacred  to, our  own  inner  ,iS 
me  to  have  an  opinion.  You  must  do  what 
you  thznk  right,  and  Maggie  Clare-" 

ately       ^''"'""  "^""'^  °'^*"  ^^  "'^J'  ^e^per- 
of'i^tt"""*  she  bear  all  the  responsibility 

swJ!'\T?-Tr  r^'^P^-d  I>y  one  of  her 
swift  haJf-fnghtened  smiles;  but  she  didn't 
wa,  for  an  answer.  Before  Chip  could  bin 
to  stammer  out  an  explanation  that  would  gfve 
hs  pomt  of  view  she  wa.  passing  rapidly  Jn 

aad  bleedmg-hearts,  toward  the  house 

But  when  he  returned  to  town  he  went  to 
-e  Maggie  Clare.  He  went,  and  went  ^liT 
The  experience  became,  in  its  way.  the  most 
poignant  in  his  life.  He  had  not  mich  knol 
«Ige  of  death  and  even  less  of  sickness.  The 
wasted  face  and  the  sunken,  burning  eyes 
wrought  m  him  a  kind  of  terror.    It  w^  Jth 

115 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

an  effort  that  he  could  take  the  long  thm  hand, 
that  already  had  the  chill  of  the  grave  in  its 
limp  fingers,  into  his  own.  As  for  kissing  those 
bloodless  lips,  so  eager,  so  strained,  which  he 
could  see  was  what  she  wanted  him  to  do,  he 
was  unable  to  bring  himself  to  it.  Luckily  he 
was  not  obliged  to  talk,  since  her  mind  couldn't 
follow  coherent  sentences.  It  was  enough  for 
her  to  have  him  sit  by  the  bed  while  she  worked 
her  hands  gropingly  toward  him,  saying,  "Oh, 
Chip!  oh.  Chip!"  and  murmuring  broken  things 
in  Swedish.  It  was  incredible  to  him  that  this 
poor  worn  thing,  this  living  shadow,  that  had 
exhausted  everything  but  its  passion  for  him- 
self, had  once  been  a  woman  whom  he  loved. 
He  was  glad  when  she  died  and  could  be 
buried,  so  that  he  might  consider  that  episode 
as  ended — if  there  was  ever  an  end  to  anything 
in  this  cursed  life!  And  yet  the  occurrence 
brought  him  another  kind  of  shock.  In  the 
death  of  one  who  for  years  had  been  so  closely 
associated  with  his  thoughts  it  was  as  if  his 
own  death  had  begun.  He  grew  uneasy,  mor- 
bid. Such  occupations  as  he  found  to  fill  the 
hours  when  he  was  not  at  work  grew  insuffi- 
cient.   He  came  to  hate  the  clubs,  the  rcstau- 

118 


REPROACH 

rants,  the  theaters,  and  such  social  gatherings 
as  he  was  now  invited  to.  There  was  an  even- 
ing when  from  sheer  boredom  he  went  home 
to  h,s  rooms  as  early  as  eight  o'cloek-and  the 
bottle  of  Old  Piper  came  out  of  its  hiding, 
place. 

The  real  struggle  followed  on  that.    He  had 
not  so  far  forgotten  Emery  Bland's  warning 
as  to  cease  to  put  up  a  fight;  but  he  saw  now 
that  the  fight  would  be  a  hard  one.    There  was 
again  a  period  in  which  he  weighed  the  advaji- 
tages  of  "going  to  the  bad"  with  all  sails  set 
agamst  a  life  of  useless  respectability.    Going 
to  the  bad  had  the  more  to  recommend  it  since 
he  knew  that  Edith  was  in  New  York     His 
downfall  might  bring  her  back  to  him.  in  some 
such  way,  from  some  such  motive  of  saving 
or  pity,  as  that  by  which  he  himself  had  been 
brought  to  Maggie  Clare. 

The  argument  being  in  favor  of  Old  Piper 
Old  Piper  supported  it.  Chip  never  forgot  an' 
evenmg  when,  as  he  staggered  down  the  steps 
of  the  club  toward  the  taxi  that  had  been 
caUed  for  him.  he  met  Emery  Bland,  who  was 
conungup.  He  would  have  dodged  the  lawyer 
without  recognition  had  it  not  been  for  the 

*  117 


wv 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

latter's  kindly  touch  on  his  arm,  while  a  voice 
of  distress  said :  "  Ah,  poor  old  chap,  what's  this?" 

He  had  just  wit  enough  left  to  stammer: 
"Edith's  in  New  York.  Go  and  tell  her  how 
you  saw  me." 

With  that  he  staggered  on,  knowing  that  he 
itlmost  fell  into  the  waiting  vehicle. 

Worse  days  ensued — for  nearly  a  week. 
Worse  still  might  have  followed  had  they  not 
been  cut  short  suddenly.  They  were  cut  short 
by  a  note  which  bore  the  signature,  Lily  Bland. 
It  was  a  simple  note,  containing  nothing  but 
the  request  that  he  should  come  and  see  her 
on  one  of  a  choice  of  evenings  which  she  named. 
He  took  the  first  one,  which  waa  that  of  the 
day  of  the  note's  arrival. 

He  had  hardly  seen  her  since  then-  talk  at 
Mountain  Brook  in  the  previous  June.  He 
had  not  gone  again  that  summer  to  New  Hamp- 
shire, and  on  the  two  cr  three  occasions  on 
which  he  had  visited  Bland's  house  in  town  she 
seemed  to  have  retreated  once  more  to  her  old 
place  as  the  spirit  of  the  furniture.  He  had 
made  eflforta  to  get  nearer  her,  but  she  seemed 
to  elude  his  approaches. 

He  knew  she  would  not  have  summoned  him 

118 


REPROACH 

saw  that  hi.  surmises   were  correct   by  her 
^ethod  of  recefving  Wm.    She  was  not  fn  the 

wiUi  a  background  of  bindings  of  red  and  blX 

yon  etchuigs.  and  one  brilhant,  sinister  snot 
^  color  by  F.,icien  Hops.  There  was  a  JL 
f;  -monumental  fireplace,  and  as  he  .nZlJ^ 
a  log  was  just  breaking  in  the  middle  and  spS 

"oli^'"^^  '''  *""'  "-^^^^  -"^'•^  W 

It  was  the  room  of  the  successful  New-Yorker 
who  dehghts  in  giving  H^^elf  all  the  ii 

liri^ff  :  ^''-^'^-ed  simply  in  some 
hght  stuff  and  scarcely  dScolletee,  seemed  some- 
what lost  m  the  spaciousness  of  her  sur.>und. 
mgs  She  made  no  pretense  at  preliminary 
Z  d-nf  u'""'  ^°'"^  •*^«''^  to'her  poS 

wWchlet  5^  '  'T •*'''°  °'  ^'•^  -'^«  -th 
which  she  had  opened  the  similar  conversation 
at  Mountain  Brook     "T',r„  xi.      "'"^"'" 

vou  "    W.  •  7  ,  somethmg  to  tell 

L.h«  J  T  '''*^  ^''^  ""^^  '^^y  ^^'-  shak- 
ing hands,  she  went  on  as  soon  aa  they  were 
seated  in  the  firelight:  ^ 

lU 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

"At  least  Uncle  Emery  had  something  to 
tell  you,  and  I  asked  him  to  let  me  do  it." 

"Why?"  He  put  the  question  rather 
blankly. 

"Because  I  thought  I  could  do  it  better." 
But  she  caught  herself  up  at  once.  "No;  not 
better.  Of  course,  I  can't  do  that.  Only- 
only  I  wanted  him  to  let  me  do  it." 

Chip's  heart  bounded.  Edith  was  in  New 
York.  She  had  heard  of  his  condition.  She 
was  coming  back  to  him.  He  was  to  have  his 
reward  for  taking  pity  on  Maggie  Clare.  His 
tongue  and  lips  were  parched  aa  he  forced 
out  the  words: 

"Then  it's  good  news— or  you  wouldn't  want 
to  break  it?" 

She  was  not  visibly  perturbed.  Rather,  she 
was  pen.sive,  sitting  with  an  elbow  resting  on 
the  arm  of  her  chair,  the  hand  raised  so  as  to 
lay  a  forefinger  on  her  cheek.  "  Don't  you  think 
that  we  often  make  news  good  or  bad  by  our 
way  of  taking  it?" 

"That's  asking  me  a  question,  when  you've 
got  information  to  give  me.    What  have  you 
to  tell  me.  Miss  Bland?" 
"I've  something  to  tell  you  that  will  give  you 

120 


KEPROACH 

a  great  shock;   so  that  I  don't  want  to  say  it 
till  I  know  you're  prepared." 

God  s  sake.  M,ss  Bland,  what  is  it?  Is  one  of 
the  children  hurt?    Is  one  of  then,  dead?" 

th.-/  .7u  '^  ^"  ^  ^'^'  ^'^^-  I  ^'"•d  that 
this  would  be  a  great  shock.  There's  a  differ- 
enc^and  one  can  be  prepared." 

"Well  I  am.    Please  don't  keep  me  in  sus- 
pense.   Do  tell  me." 

She  sat  now  with  hands  folded  in  her  lap. 
p"ed""  '^""""-     "''°'  ^""'^  "°t  P- 

"Tell  me  what  to  do  and  I'll  do  it,"  he  said 
nervously,  "only  don't  torture  me."  ' 

One  IS  prepared."  she  said,  tranquilly,  "by 
remembermg  beforehand  one's  own  strength- 
by  knowing  that  there's  nothing  one  can't 
bear,  and  bear  nobly." 


go 


please 

"But  will  you?" 

"Will  I  what?" 

"Will  you  try  to  say  to  yourself:  I'm  a  man. 
andlmequ^Itothis.    It  can't  knock  me  down 
It  cant  even  stagger  me.    I'll  take  it  in  the 

121 


{. 


il 

mi 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

highest  way      I  sha'n't  let  it  degrade  me  or 
send  me  for  help  to  degrading  things-" 

He  flung  his  hands   outward.     "Yes,  yes 
I  know  what  you're  driving  at.    I  promise." 
Only,  for  God's  sake,  tell  me.    Is  it  about-?" 
Its  about  Mrs.  Walker." 

,  "y,^!'  !f.  '  ^"PPOsed.  But  what  is  it?  L. 
she  ill?    Oh.  she  isn't  dead?" 

The  cry  made  her  ^eyes  smart,  but  she  kept 
control  of  her  voice. 

"No.  she's  not  dead.  She's  not  even  ill. 
She  s   perfectly   well,   so   I   understand.    But 

'  I  rr,"  '^^'  ^°"°'  '"  ^^'  ^^'''  the  way 
in  which  he  leaned  forward  as  though  he  would 
spnng  at  her,  warned  her  that  he  knew  what 
was  coming.  She  gave  him  time  to  get  himself 
m  hand  by  rising  and  taking  the  two  or  three 
paces  to  the  fireplace,  where  she  stood  with  a 
hand  on  the  mantel-board,  which  was  above 
her  head,  while  she  gazed  into  the  embera. 
ones  been — married." 

She  didn't  turn  round.  She  knew  by  all  the 
subtle  unnamed  senses  that  he  was  huddled  in 
his  big  arm-chair  in  a  state  of  collapse.  For 
the  minute  there  was  nothing  to  say  or  do. 
Since  the  iron  had  to  enter  into  his  soul,  it  was 


REPROACH 

better  that  it  should  be  like  this.    It  was  better 

e;:hir'i'^"''-''^-'^''''ertie^^^^^ 

ca?t  /  '"'"P'"'^  ""  »"«  human  being 
can  keep  for  another  at  such  an  houi^beS 
than  J  he  were  to  learn  it  in  the  solitude  of^ 
own  „K,ms,  or  in  the  unsustaining  frigidity  o 

at  She  was  «^A  h,m  in  every  nerve  that  Lelped 

irrtr"''"'^''''^"'*^^''^^--^ 

hapT'  or  fi^  """"*"  '"'  P-ed-ten.  per- 
iiaps  or  fifteen-mstinct  told  her  when  to 
«peak  again.  She  did  it  without  changrthe 
position  in  which  she  stood,  or  tuminTL  a 
glance  toward  him.  ^ 

"You  won't  forget  your  promise?" 
He  spoke  with  the  vacant,  suffering  tone  of 
a  sick  child,  or  of  a  person  so  sunk  into  wretled 

.et'JrC- e?  ^'''^^-     "^-  ^-'^  ^- 
"marrrT^S!!^— — •'^•eted. 

toZ::1tTo;vr-''--"'-«trong  enough 
lis 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

"But  I'm  not." 

She  turned  partly.  He  was  bent  over  in  a 
crushed,  stupid  attitude,  his  ha.->d8  hanging 
h'mply  between  his  knees.     "Oh,  Mr.  Walker!" 

He  raised  his  forlorn  eyes.  "VVliy  did  you 
want  to  tell  me.'" 

"Because  I  wanted  to  say  that.  I  was  afraid, 
if  any  one  else  did  it,  they'd  leave  it  out." 

He  gazed  at  her  long  with  a  dull,  unintelli- 
gent, unseeing  expression.  When  Lu  spoke  he 
was  like  a  man  who  tries  to  get  his  wits  together 
after  delirium  or  unconsciousness.  "Do  you 
think  I  am — strong  enough?" 

"I  know  you  are." 

He  lumbered  to  his  feet,  staggering  heavily 
to  the  chimney-piece,  where  he,  too,  laid  his 
hands  upon  the  mantel-board,  which  was  just 
on  a  level  with  his  height,  bowing  his  forehead 
upon  them.  As  he  did  so  she  moved  away. 
Seeing  his  broad  shoulders  heave,  and  fearing 
she  heard  something  smothered — was  it  a 
groan  or  a  sob? — she  slipped  out  of  the  room, 
closing  the  door  behind  her. 

But  when,  some  twenty  minutes  later,  he 
himself  came  forth,  his  head  bent,  perhaps  to 
hide  his  red  eyes  and  his  convulsed  visage,  he 

121 


REPROACH 

found  her  at  the  door  of  the  dining-room,  with 
a  cup  of  tea  in  her  hand.  "Drink  this,"  she 
said,  with  gentle  command. 

He  declined  it  with  a  shake  of  his  head  and 
an  impatient  wove  of  the  hand. 

"Yes.  do,"  she  insisted.  "It's  nice  and  hot. 
I'll  have  one,  too." 

Obediently  he  went  into  the  dining-room. 
He  drank  the  tea  standing  and  in  silence,  in 
two  or  three  gulps,  while  she.  standing  likewise, 
made  a  feint  of  pouring  a  cup  for  herself.  He 
left  without  a  good-night,  beyond  a  hard,  speech- 
less wringing  of  her  hand  on  his  way  to  the  door. 

Two  things  seemed  strange  to  Chip  after 
that  evening— the  one.  that  the  fight  with  Old 
Piper  was  ended;  and  the  other,  that  in  the 
matter  of  Edith's  marriage,  once  the  immediate 
shock  had  spent  its  strength,  he  bowed  to  the 
accomplished  fact  with  a  docility  he  himself 
could  not  understand.  As  for  the  fight  with 
Old  Piper,  there  was  no  longer  a  reason  for 
waging  it.  In  the  new  situation  Old  Piper 
had  lost  its  appeal,  from  sheer  inadequacy  to 
meet  the  new  need.  The  fact  of  the  marriage 
he  contrived  to  keep  at  a  distance.  He  could 
do  this  the  more  easily  because  it  was  so  mon- 

125 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

strous.  It  was  so  monstrous  that  the  mind 
refused  to  take  it  in,  and  he  made  no  attempt 
to  force  himself.  He  asked  neither  whom  she 
had  married  nor  why  she  had  married,  nor  any- 
thing else  about  her.  It  was  a  measure  of 
safety.  As  long  as  he  didn't  know  he  was  able 
to  create  a  pretended  fool's  paradise  of  ignorance 
which,  in  his  state  of  mind,  was  none  the  less  a 
fool's  paradise  for  being  a  pretense.  Even  a 
fool's  paradise  was  a  protection.  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  children,  he  might  not  have  heard 
so  much  as  the  man's  name. 

The  children  called  him  "papa  Lacon." 
Chip  was  obliged  to  swallow  that.  They  spoke 
of  him  simply  and  spontaneously,  taking  "papa 
Lacon"  as  a  matter  of  course.  They  varied 
the  appellation  now  and  then  by  calling  him 
"our  other  papa." 

It  had  been  intimated  to  him,  not  long  after 
the  second  marriage,  that  he  might  see  the  chil- 
dren with  reasonable  frequency,  through  the 
good  ofiBce-s  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bland.  He  soon 
saw  that  the  arrangements  were  really  in  charge 
of  Lily  Bland,  who  brought  the  children  to  her 
house,  and  took  them  home  again.  Chip  saw 
them  in  the  library. 

IM 


REPROACH 

The  first  meeting  waa  embarrassing.  Tom 
was  nearly  eight,  and  Chippie  on  the  way  to  six. 
They  entered  the  library  together,  dressed  alike 
in  blouses  and  knickerbockers,  their  caps  in 
their  hands.  They  approached  slowly  to  where 
he  hod  taken  up  a  position  he  tried  to  make 
nonchalant,  standing  on  the  hearth-rug  with 
his  hands  behind  him.  He  felt  curiously  cul- 
pable before  them,  like  a  convict  being  visited 
by  his  friends  in  jail.  He  felt  childish,  too.  as 
though  they  were  older  than,  and  superior  to, 
himself.  The  childishness  was  shown  in  his 
standing  on  his  guard,  determined  not  to  be 
the  first  to  make  the  advances.  He  wouldn't 
be  even  the  first  to  speak. 

They  came  forward  slowly,  with  an  air  ju- 
dicial and  detached.  Tom's  eyes  observed  him 
more  closely  than  his  brother's,  who  looked 
about  the  room.  Tom,  as  the  elder,  seemed  to 
feel  the  responsibility  of  the  meeting  to  be  on 
his  shoulders.  He  came  to  a  halt,  on  reaching 
the  end  of  the  library  table.  Chippie  by  his  side. 

"Hello,  papa." 

"Hello,  Tom." 

Encouraged  by  this  exchange  of  greetings. 
Chippie  also  spoke  up.    "Hello,  papa." 

117 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

"Hello,  Chippie." 

There  followed  a  few  seconds  during  which 
the  interview  threatened  to  hang  fire  there, 
when  the  protest  in  Chip's  hot  heart — which 
was  essentially  paternal — broke  out  almost 
angrily: 

"Aren't  you  going  to  kiss  me?" 

It  was  Tom  who  pointed  out  the  unreason- 
ableness of  emotion'  in  making  this  demand. 
His  brows  went  up  in  an  expression  of  surprise, 
which  hinted  at  protest  on  his  own  part.  "  Well, 
you're  not  sitting  down." 

Of  course!  It  was  obviously  impossible  for 
two  little  mites  to  kiss  a  man  of  that  height 
at  that  distance.  Chip  dropi>ed  into  an  arm- 
chair, waiting  jealously  for  the  two  dutiful 
little  pecks  that  might  pass  as  spontaneous, 
and  then  throwing  his  big  arms  about  his 
young  ones  in  a  desperate  embrace.  After  that 
the  ice  was  broken,  and,  with  the  aid  of  the 
games  and  the  picture-books  provided  by  Lily 
Bland,  the  meeting  could  go  forward  to  a  glo- 
rious termination  in  ice-cream.  Now  and  then 
there  were  difiScult  questions  or  observations, 
but  they  were  never  pressed  unduly  for  reply. 

"Papa,  why  don't  you  live  with  us  anymore?" 
iia 


HEPKOACH 

"Papa,  shall  we  have  another  papa  after  this 
one? 

"Papa,  our  other  papa  has  a  funny  nose." 

Laerar '  "'^  ^°"  **"'  '^  ^^^^'  "'  ^  P*P* 
In  general  it  was  Chippie  who  put  these 
questions  or  made  the  remarks.    Tom  seemed 
to  miderstand  already  that  the  situation  was 
dehcate,  and  had  moments  of  puzzled  gravity 
But.  taking  one  thing  with  another,  the  oc- 
casion passed  off  weU.  as  did  similar  meetings 
through  the  rest  of  that  winter  and  whenever 
they  were  possible-whieh   was  not  often- 
m  the  summer  that  followed.    It  was  a  joy  to 
Chip  when  they  began  again  in  the  autumn, 
with  a  promise  of  regularity.    But  that  joy 
too,  was  short-lived. 

It  was  his  second  time  of  seeing  them  after 
the  general  return  to  town.    Tom  was  hanging 
on  hs  shoulder,  while  Chippie  was  seated  on 
his  W.    Chippie  was  agam  the  spokesman. 
We  ve  got  a  baby  sister  at  our  house  " 
It  seemed  to  Chip  as  if  all  the  blood  in  his 
body  rushed  back  to  his  heart  and  stayed  there. 
He  felt  dizzy.  sick.     The  walls  of  his  fool's 
paradise  were  dissolved  as  mist,  revealing  a 

189 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
picture  he  had  seen  twice  already,  each  time 
wi.th  an  upleaping  of  the  primal  and  the  fatherly 
in  him;  but  now  .  .  .  Edith  had  bepn  lying  in 
bed,  wan.  bright-eyed,  happy,  with  a  litUe 
fuzzy  head  just  peeping  at  her  breast! 

He  put  the  boy  from  oflf  his  knee.  Tom 
seemed  to  divine  something  and  stole  away. 
For  a  second  or  two  both  lads  watched  him 
—Chippie  looking  lip  straight  into  his  face, 
Tom  gazing  from  the  distant  line  of  the  book- 
case, with  his  habitual  expression  of  troubled 
perplexity.  Chip  managed  to  speak  at  last, 
getting  out  the  words  in  a  fairly  natural  tone. 
"Look  here,  boys;  I  can't  stay  to-day.  I've 
got  a— I've  got  a  pain.  Just  play  by  your- 
selves till  Miss  Bland  comes  for  you.  Be  good 
boys,  now,  and  don't  touch  any  of  Mr.  Bland's 
things." 

He  was  hurrying  to  the  door  when  Chippie 
interrupted  him.    "Where  have  you  got  a  pain. 


He  tapped  himself  on  the  heart.  "Here, 
Chippie,  here;  and  I  hope  you  may  never  have 
anything  so  awful." 

As  he  went  down  the  steps  he  found  himself 
saying:  "Will  this  crucifixion  never  end?    Have 


REPROACH 

I  deserved  it?    Wm  th^  „_• 

"  iir      rras  tHe  cnme  so  temhl^  tJ.o* 

1  must  be  tortured  by  degrees  like  ISr*""* 

evettoThinT"^-*"  '^''''  ^'^  ''"-*•-«.  »' 
even  to  thmk.    His  mind  seemed  to  go  blank 

till  as  he  tramped  down  the  street  he  came 

meTnrmot"  ''''"" '•^'•'    ^^^'--'•-«- 

prl'tir   r""""'  '"*  '^  "P^**«l  *h«  ™- 
pm^atzon.    He  repeated  it  because  it  shocked 

iSlt  h  '*  P™^*""*  1^  holy  of  holies,  and 

f'Jr.''''^'^'''-    Itg'^vehimafierce 
po^verted  ,oy  to  feel  that  she  whom  he  wS 

Its  treasures  m  the  streets.  ^ 

He  had  never  had  a  sanctuary  but  in  her 
OUier  people's  temples  were  to  him  not  I' 


M 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

Now  that  the  shrine  had  been  proven  empty, 
and  the  goddess  irrevocably  flown,  he  got  an 
impious  satisfaction  from  battering  down  the 
altars  and  blaspheming  the  deity  to  whom 
they  had  been  raised. 

"Damn  her!  Damn  her!" 
He  repeated  the  curse  at  intervals  till  he 
reached  his  rooms,  the  hateful  rooms  that  he 
rarely  visited  at  this  hour  of  the  day.  He  was 
not,  however,  thinking  of  their  hatefulness  now, 
as  he  had  come  with  an  intention. 

There  was  u  fire  laid  in  the  fireplace,  and  he 
lighted  it.  When  it  was  crackling  sufficiently 
he  drew  Edith's  photograph  from  its  frame 
and,  after  gazing  at  it  long  and  bitterly,  tossed 
it  into  the  blaze.  He  watched  it  blister  and 
writhe  as  though  it  had  been  a  living  thing. 
The  flame  seized  on  it  slowly  and  unwillingly, 
biting  at  the  edges  in  a  curling  wreath  of  blue, 
and  eating  its  way  inward  only  by  degrees. 
But  it  ate  its  way.  It  ate  its  way  till  the  whole 
lovely  person  disappeared— first  the  hands, 
and  then  the  bosom,  and  then  the  throat  and 
the  features.  The  sweet  eyes  still  gazed  up 
at  him  when  everything  else  was  gone. 

He  had  hoped  to  get  relief  by  this  bit  of 

132 


^    ^ 


EEPROACH 

ritual,  but  none  came.  When  that  which  had 
been  the  semblance  of  his  wife  was  no  more 
than  a  little  swoUen  rectangle  of  black  ash.  and 
the  fire  itself  was  dying  down,  he  threw  him- 
self into  a  chair. 

The  reaction  was  not  long  in  setting  in.  It 
set  in  with  a  voice  that  might  have  come  from 
without,  but  which  he  nevertheless  recognized 
as  his  own: 

"You  fool!  Oh,  you  fool!  What  difference 
does  this  make  to  your  love  for  her?  You  know 
you  love  her,  and  that  you  will  never  cease  lov- 
ing her,  and  that  what  you  envy  her  is— 'he 
child." 

What  you  envy  her  is— the  child!  He  pon- 
dered on  this.  It  was  like  an  accusation.  The 
admission  of  it— when  admission  came— was 
the  point  of  departure  in  his  heart  of  a  new 
conscious  yearning. 


IV 


DANOEB 

IT  was  what  he  had  been  afraid  of  on  and  off 
for  seven  years.  DThe  wonder  was  that  it 
hadn't  happened  before.  But,  since  it  had  not 
happened,  he  had  got  out  of  the  way  of  expect- 
ing it.  The  fear  of  it  used  to  dog  him  whenever  he 
went  to  the  theater  or  the  opera  or  out  to  dine. 
There  had  been  minutes  in  Fifth  Avenue,  or 
Bond  Street,  or  the  Rue  de  la  Faix,  as  the  case 
might  be,  when,  at  the  sight  of  a  feather  or  a 
scarf  or  something  familiar  in  a  way  of  walking, 
his  heart  and  brain  seemed  to  stop  their  func- 
tion. He  had  known  himself  to  stand  stock- 
still,  searching  wildly  for  the  easy,  casual 
phrases  he  had  prepared — ^for  the  purpose  of 
carrying  off  such  a  meeting  as  this,  if  ever  it 
occurred,  only  to  find  that  he  was  mistaken — 
that  It  was  some  one  else. 

There  had  been  two  or  three  years  like  that, 
two  or  three  years  in  which  they  had  often 


DAN6EB 

been  in  the  same  city,  perhaps  under  the  same 
roof;  but  he  had  never  so  much  as  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her.  In  the  earlier  months  that 
had  been  a  relief.  He  couldn't  have  seen  her 
and  kept  his  self-control.  He  could  follow  the 
routine  of  life  only  by  a  system  he  had  invented 
—a  system  for  shutting  her  out  of  his  thought, 
that  the  sight  of  her  would  have  wrecked. 

Then  had  come  another  period  in  which  he 
felt  he  could  have  committed  infamies  just  to 
see  her  getting  in  or  out  of  a  carriage,  or  lunch- 
ing in  a  restaurant,  or  buying  something  in  a 
shop.  There  were  whole  seasons  when  he 
knew  she  was  in  New  York  from  autumn  to 
spring;  and,  though  he  haunted  all  the  places 
where  women  who  keep  in  the  movement  are 
likely  to  be  found,  he  never  saw  her. 

He  knew  he  could  have  discovered  her  plans 
and  followed  her;  but  he  wouldn't  do  that. 
Besides,  he  didn't  want  to  meet  her  in  such  a 
way  as  to  be  obliged  to  speak  to  her.  He 
wouldn't  have  known  what  to  say,  or  by  what 
name  to  call  her.  Such  an  encounter  would 
have  annoyed  her  and  made  him  grotesque. 
It  was  more  than  he  asked.  He  would  have 
been  satisfied  with  a  glimpse  of  her  gloved  hand 
us 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

or  her  veiled  face  as  she  drove  in  the  Park  or 
the  Avenue.    But  he  never  got  it. 

After  he  married,  the  fear  of  n.oeting  her 
came  back.  It  was  fear  as  much  for  her  sake 
as  for  his  own.  He  began  to  understand  that 
the  embarrassjsent  wouldn't  be  all  on  his  side, 
nor  the  suffering.  He  picked  that  up  from 
the  children,  as  he  l^ad  picked  up  so  many 
things,  piecing  odds  and  ends  of  their  speeches 
together.  He  saw  them  so  rarely  now  that 
he  attached  the  greater  value  to  the  hints  they 
threw  out.  He  never  questioned  them  about 
her,  but  it  was  natural  that  they  should  take 
a  wider  range  of  comment  in  proportion  as  they 
grew  older.  So  he  learned  that  her  dread  of 
seeing  him  was  as  great  as  his  own  of  seeing 
her.  It  was  astonishing  that  in  all  those  seven 
years  the  hazards  of  New  York  should  not  have 
thrown  them  together. 

And  now,  at  the  moment  when  he  might 
reasonably  have  felt  safest,  there  she  was! 
That  is,  she  was  on  the  steamer.  For  seven 
or  eight  days  they  were  to  be  cooped  up  on 
the  same  boat.  He  could  never  go  on  deck 
or  into  the  saloon  without  having  to  pass  her. 
Worse  still,  she  could  never  go  outside  her 
us 


DANGER 

cabin  door  without  the  risk  of  being  obliged  to 
make  him  some  sign  of  recognition.  And  a 
sign  of  recognition  between  them— why,  the 
thing  was  absurd!  Between  them  it  must  be 
all— or  nothing;  and  it  couldn't  be  either. 

He  looked  at  the  passenger-list  again.  Yes; 
that  was  her  name:  Mr»,  Theodore  Lacon.  It 
was  not  a  name  likely  to  be  duplicated.  In 
all  human  probability  it  was  she.  As  far  as 
he  could  gather  from  the  list,  she  was  traveling 
alone,  without  so  much  as  the  companionship 
of  a  maid.  He,  too,  was  alone;  but,  fortunate- 
ly, his  name  was  inconspicuous:  Mr.  C.  Walker. 
It  was  just  the  sort  of  name  to  be  overlooked. 
She  might  read  the  list  half  a  dozen  times 
without  really  seeing  it.  If  she  were  to  no- 
tice it,  she  might  easily  not  reflect  that  the 
initial  stood  for  Chipman.  It  was  conceiv- 
able that  if  she  didn't  actually  see  him  she 
might  not  know  that  he  was  on  the  ship  at 
aU. 

The  thought  suggested  a  line  of  action.  He 
was  in  his  cabin  at  the  time.  He  could  stay 
there.  Looking  through  the  port-hole,  he  saw 
that  they  had  not  yet  passed  the  Statue  of 
Liberty.    While  in  dock  he  had  kept  to  his 

137 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 
room,  in  order  to  read  letters  and  avoid  the 
crowd  that  throngs  the  deck  of  an  outgoing 
rteamer.    There  was  every  likelihood  that  she 
hadn't  seen  him  any  more  than  he  had  seen 
her.   If  he  kept  himself  hidden  she  might  never 
know!    He  could  avoid  the  decks  by  day  and 
take  his  exercise  by  night.    By  night,  too.  he 
could  creep  into  the  smoking-room  and  get  a 
Kttle  change.    But  he'  would  stay  away  from 
the  general  gathering-places  on  the  ship  and 
spare  her  what  pain  he  could.    That   they 
should  meet  as  strangers  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion.   That  they  should  meet  as  social  ac- 
quaintances was  even  more  so.    They  had  been 
^  to  each  other-and  they  had  been  nothing. 
No  other  relation  was  possible. 

So  the  week  passed,  and  they  reached  Liver- 
pool. He  was  purposely  among  the  last  to  go 
ashore.  In  the  great  shed  where  the  luggage 
was  distributed  under  initial  letters,  he  was  glad 
to  remember  that  W  was  so  far  from.  Never- 
theless, he  allowed  his  eye  to  roam  toward  sec- 
tion L.  but  found  no  one  there  whom  he  recog- 
nized. He  ran  over  in  his  mind  the  various 
chances  that  she  might  not  have  come.  It 
was  no  uncommon  thing  to  read  in  a  list  of 

188 


DANGER 

P«u»engers  the  names  of  people  who  hadn't 
■ailed.    He  had  done  so  before. 

Later  he  scanned,  as  discreetly  as  he  could, 
the  occupants  of  the  special  train  that  was  to 
take  them  to  London.  He  couldn't  see  that 
she  was  anywhere  among  them.  He  sighed, 
but  whether  from  relief  or  disappointment  he 
was  not  sure. 

As  it  was  one  o'clock,  he  took  his  seat  in 
the  luncheon-car,  making  sure  in  advance  that 
she  wasn't  there.    He  had  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion  by  this  time  that  she  was  not  on  the  train 
at  aU— that  she  hadn't  been  on  the  steamer. 
He  did  not,  however,  regret  his  precautions, 
because— well,  because  the  sense  of  her  prox- 
imity had  made  him  feel  as  he  had  felt  in  the 
days— fourteen  years  ago  now— when  the  very 
streets  of  the  city  in  which  she  lived  were  hal- 
lowed ground.    He  had  supposed  that  emotion 
dead.    Probably   it   was   dead.    It   must   be 
dead.    It  was  merely  that,  owing  to  the  con- 
straint of  the  voyage,  his  nerves  were  unstrung, 
mducing  the  frame  of  mind  in  which  people 
see  ghosts.    Yes.  that  was  it;  he  had  been  see- 
ing ghosts.    It  was  not  a  living  tWng.  this  re- 
newed yearning  for  a  sight  of  her.    It  was  only 

139 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

the  reflex  of  aomething  past.  It  could  be  ex- 
plained psychologically.  It  waa  the  sort  of 
evanescent  sentiment  inspired  by  old  songs,  or 
by  the  scent  of  faded  flowers,  reviving  old  joys 
tenderly,  perhaps  poignantly,  but  fleetingly, 
insubstantially,  and  only  as  the  wraiths  of 
what  they  were.  Yes,  that  was  it,  he  repeated 
to  himself  as  he  lunched.  It  was  nothing  to 
be  afraid  of,  nothing  incongruous  with  the  fact 
that  he  had  left  a  wife  and  child  in  New  York. 
It  was  not  an  emotion;  it  was  only  the  echo,  the 
shadow,  the  memory  of  an  emotion,  gone  be- 
fore it  could  be  seized. 

And  then,  suddenly,  they  were  face  to  face. 
He  was  on  his  way  from  the  luncheon-car  to 
the  compartment  he  shared  with  two  or  three 
men  at  the  other  end  of  the  train.  She  was 
standing  in  the  corridor,  looking  out  at  the 
vaporous  English  landscape.  Through  the 
mists  overlying  the  flat  fields  and  distant 
parks  trees  loomed  weirdly,  the  elms  and 
beeches  in  full  leaf,  the  oaks  just  tinged  with 
green.  Cottony  white  clouds  drifted  over- 
head; the  sun  was  dimly  visible.  Now  and 
then  a  line  of  hedge  was  white,  or  pink  and 
white,  with  the  bursting  may. 

140 


DANGER 

He  didn't  recognize  the  lady  who  barred  hia 
way  along  the  narrow  passage.  As  she  stood 
with  one  arm  on  the  brass  rail  that  crossed  the 
window  he  could  see  an  ungloved  hand;  but 
it  might  have  been  any  hand.  She  wore  a  long 
brown  coat,  rather  shapeless,  reaching  to  the 
hem  of  her  dress,  while  a  large  hat,  about  which 
a  green  veil  looped  and  drooped  irregularly, 
entirely  concealing  the  head,  helped  to  make 
her,  as  he  stood  waiting  for  her  to  move,  a 
mere  feminine  figure  without  personality. 

It  was  the  sense  that  some  one  desired  to 
pass  that  caused  her  to  turn  slightly,  glancing 
up  at  him  sidewise.  Even  so,  he  couldn't  see 
all  of  her  face — not  much  more  than  the  fore- 
head and  the  eyes.  But  the  eyes  seemed  to 
come  alive  as  he  looked  down  into  them,  like 
sapphires  under  slowly  growing  light.  When 
she  turned,  her  movements  had  the  deliberation 
of  bewilderment.  She  might  have  been  just 
wakened  in  a  place  she  didn't  know. 

"Chip!"  There  was  another  half-minute  of 
incredulous  gazing  before  she  said  anything 
more.    "What  are  you  doing  here?" 

He  felt  the  necessity  of  explaining  his  pres- 
ence.   "I  was  on  the  boat.    I  didn't  know—" 

Ml 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

"That  I  waa  on  it,  too?" 

"I— I  did  know  that,"  he  .tammered,  "after 
we  sailed.  Not  before.  It  was  the  name  in 
the  list—" 

"But  I  never  saw  you.  There  weren't  many 
passengers.     I  was  always  on  deck." 

Her  distress  betrayed  itself  in  the  trembling 
of  her  voice,  in  the  shifting  of  her  color,  and  in 
the  beating  of  the  ungloved  hand  upon  the 
gloved  one. 

He  felt  his  own  confusion  passing.  It  was 
so  natural  to  be  with  her,  so  right.  His  voice 
grew  steadier  as  he  said: 

"I  didn't  go  about  very  much.  I  was 
afraid — " 

She  nodded,  speaking  hastily.  "I  understand. 
It  was  kind  of  you.    And  you're-alone?" 

He  cursed  himself  for  coloring,  but  he 
couldn't  help  it.  He  had  a  wife  and  child  in 
New  York!  He  saw  that  she  wanted  to  recog- 
nize that  fact  from  the  first.  She  wanted  to  put 
that  boy  and  his  mother  between  them.  Her 
husband  and  child  stood  between  them.  too. 
He  took  that  cue  in  answering. 

"Yes;   I've  run  over  hurriedly  on  business. 
And  are  you  alone,  too?" 
na 


DANGER 

She  glanced  toward  the  empty  compartment 
where  her  bags  were  stowed  in  the  overhead 
racks,  and  her  books  and  illustrated  papers  lay 
on  the  cushions.  "I'm  on  my  way  to  join 
my—"    It  was  her  turn  to  color. 

He  nodded  quickly,  to  show  that  he  under- 
stood. 

"He's  in  Biarritz."  she  hurried  on,  for  the 
sake  of  saying  something.  "I'm  to  meet  him 
in  Paris.  I  wasn't  coming  over  at  all  this 
spring.  I  wanted  to  stay  with  the  children 
at  Towers—" 

It  was  a  safe  subject.  "How  were  the  chil- 
dren when  you  left?" 

"Tom  was  all  right;  but  Chippie  has  been 
having  the  same  old  trouble  with  his  tonsils. 
They'll  have  to  be  cut  again." 

"I  thought  so  the  last  time  I  saw  him.  And 
he's  growing  too  fast  for  his  strength,  poor  lit- 
tle chap.  I  notice,"  he  added,  gazing  at  her 
more  mtently  than  he  had  as  yet  permitted 
himself  to  do.  "  that  he  begins  to  look  like  you." 

She  smiled  for  the  first  time.  "Oh.  but  7 
think  he  looks  like  you." 

"No;  Tom  takes  after  me.    He's  a  Walker 
Chippie's—" 

14S 


;l 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

"A  darling,"  she  broke  in.     "But  he's  not 

strong.    Ever  since  he  had  the  scarlet  fever--" 

"Yes,  I  know.    But  it  might  have  been 

worse.    We  might  have  lost  him.    Do  you 

remember  the  night—?" 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  eyes  as  if  to  shut 
out  the  vision  of  it.  "Oh,  that  awful  night! 
And  you  were  more  afraid  than  I  was.  Mothers 
are  braver  than  fathers  at  Umes  like  that." 

"It  was  watching  the  'fight  he  put  up.  Gad, 
he  was  plucky,  the  poor  litUe  chap!  And  he 
was  only  three,  wasn't  he?" 
"Three  and  five  months." 
"And  he'U  be  eleven  his  next  birthday. 
How  the  years  fly!  By  the  way,  won't  it  soon 
be  tune  for  Tom  to  be  going  to  boarding- 
school?"  * 

They  were  being  pushed  and  jostled  by 
guards  and  passengers.  Between  sentences  it 
was  necessary  to  make  room  f«-  some  one 
going  or  coming.  She  was  obliged  to  step  back 
into  her  compartment.  Having  taken  the  seat 
m  the  comer  by  the  window,  she  motioned  with 
her  hand  toward  that  in  the  opposite  comer 
by  the  door.  In  this  way  they  were  separated 
by  the  length  and  width  of  the  compartment, 

144 


DANGEB 

the  distance  marking  the  other  gulf  between 
them. 

She  continued  to  talk  of  the  chadren,  looking 
at  first  into  the  cavernous  obscurity  of  Crewe 
station,  through  which  they  were  dashmg,  and 
then  at  the  open  country.     The  chfldren,  with 
then-  needs,  their  ailments,  then-  future  careers, 
could  not  but  be  the  natural  theme  between 
them.    It  lasted  while  they  passed  Nuneaton, 
Rugby,  and  Stafford,  and  were  well  on  their 
way  to  London.    Suddenly  he  risked  a  question: 
"Do  they— understand?" 
She  was  plamly  agitated  that  he  should  dis- 
turb the  ashes  that  buried  their  past.    Her 
eyes  shot  him  one  piteous.  appeaHng  glance, 
after  which  they  returned  to  the  passmg  land- 
scape.   "Tom  understands,"  she  said,  at  last. 
"Chippie  takes  it  for  granted." 
"Takes  it  for  granted— how?" 
"Just  as  they  both  did— till  Tom  began  to 
get  a  little  more  experience.    It  seemed  to 
them  quite  the  ordinary  thmg  to  have"— she 
hesitated  and  colored— "to  have  two  fathers." 
He   winced,    but   risked   another   question: 
"What  makes  you  think  that  Tom's  discovered 
it  to  be  unusual?" 

us 


ri 


THE  LETTEB  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
"Because  he's  said  so." 
"In  what  way?    Do  you  mind  telling  me?" 
"I'd  rather  not  tell  you." 
"But  if  I  insist?" 

"You'U  insist  at  the  risk  of  having  your  feel- 
ings hurt." 

"Oh,  that!"    A  shrug  of  his  shoulders  and 

a  wry  smile  expressed  his  indifference  to  such 

a  res^ilt.     "Did  he  ask  you  anything?" 

She  nodded,  without  turning  from  the  win- 
dow. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  what  it  was?    It  would 
help  me  in  my  future  dealing  with  the  boy." 
She  continued  to  gaze  out  at  the  park-like 
fields,  from  which  the  mists  had  risen.    "He 
asked  me  if  you  hud  done  anything  bad." 
"And  you  told  him—?" 
"I  told  him  that  I  didn't  understand-that 
perhaps  I'd  never  understood." 

"Thank  you  for  putting  it  like  that.  But 
you  did  understand,  you  know-perfectly. 
\ou  mustn't  have  it  on  your  conscience 
that — " 

"Oh,  we  can't  help  the  things  we've  got  on 
our  consciences.  There's  no  way  of  shuffling 
away  from  them." 


DANGER 

He  allowed  some  minutes  to  pass  before  say- 

mg  gently:  "You're  happy?"  ^ 

She  spoke  while  watching  a  flock  of  sheep 

trottmg  clumsily  up  a  hillside  from  the  noise 

of  the  tram.    "And  you?" 

"Oh.  I'm  as  happy  a^-weU.  aa  I  deserve 
to  be.  I  m  not  ««happy."  A  pause  gave 
emphasis  to  his  quesUon  when  he  said,  almost 
repeatmg  her  tone:  "And  you?" 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  say  the  same"    A 
dozen  or  twenty  rooks  alighting  on  an  elm  en- 
gaged her  attention  before  she  added:    "I've 
no  right  to  be  unhappy." 
"One  can  be  unhappy  without  a  right." 
Yes;    but  one  forfeits  sympatiiy." 
'Do  you  need  sympathy?" 

She  ansTvered  hurriedly:  "No,  not  at  all." 
I  do. 

ffis  words  were  so  low  that  it  was  permissible 

at  first  to  make  use  of  this  privilege,  but  when 
a  mmute  or  more  had  gone  by  she  said:  "What 

"Partly  for  the  penalties  I've  had  to  pay. 
but  chiefly  for  deserving  them." 
It  seemed  to  him  Uiat  her  profile  grew  pen- 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
sive.  Though  it  detached  itseU  clearly  enough 
against  the  pane,  it  was  a  soft  profile,  a  httle 
blurred  in  the  outUne.  with  delicate  curves  of 
nose  and  lips  and  chin-the  profile  to  go  with 
dimpling  smiles  and  a  suffused  sweetness.  It 
pained  him  to  notice  that,  though  the  suffused 
sweetness  and  the  dimpUng  smiles  were  still  as 

he  remembered  them,  they  didn't  keep  out  of 

her  face  certain  lines  that  had  not  been  there 

when  he  saw  her  last. 
"I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  after 

long  reflection,  "that  I  understand  that  sort  of 

sympathy  better  now  than  I  did  some  years  ago. 

One  grows  more  tolerant,  if  that's  the  right 

word,  as  one  grows  older." 
"Does  that  mean  that  if  certain  things  were 

to  do  again— you  wouldn't  do  them?" 
She  took  on  an  air  of  dignity.    "That's 

something  I  can't  talk  about." 
"But  you  think  about  it." 

"Even  so,  I  couldn't  discuss  it  — with 
you." 

"But  I'm  the  very  one  with  whom  you  cotdd 
discuss  it.  Between  us  the  conversaUon  would 
be  what  lawyers  call  privileged." 

She  looked  round  at  him  for  the  first  time 

148 


DANGER 

since  entering  the  compartment.    "Is  anything 
pnvJeged  between  you  and  me?" 
"Isn't  everything?" 
"I  don't  see  how." 
"We've  been  man  and  wife—" 
"That's  the  very  reason.    No  two  peoole 
seem  to  me  so  far  apart  as  those  who'veTl 
maa  and  wife-and  aren't  so  any  longer." 

togett.'' ^'  "  "  "^^'  "*•  '^'^  -  -  "ear 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  mute  questioning.    He 
^ade  no  attempt  to  approach  her.  but  i^  lean- 
ing .^ss  the  upholstered  arm  of  his  seat  he 

tTrki:^^"""^  ^""^ '''  "^^  '^^-^  •- 

J-No  two  are  so  near  together."  he  went  on. 
for  the  very  reason  that  when  they're  sepa- 
rated outwardly  they're  bound  the  more  cloL7y 
by  the  things  of  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the 
spmt  After  all,  those  are  the  ties  that  count 
The  legal  dBsolving  of  bonds  and  making  of 
new  ones  IS  only  superficial.  It  hasn't  put  you 
and  me  asundei-not  the  you  and  me."  he 

attitude  seemed  to  indicate  dissent,  "not  the 
you  and  me  that  are  really  essential.    No  court 

"*  149  • 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
and  no  judge  could  dissolve  the  union  we  en- 
tered into  when  you  were  twenty-one  and  I  was 
twenty-seven,  and  our  two  lives  melted  into 
each  other  like  the  flowing  together  of  two 
streams.  Neither  judge  nor  court  can  resolve 
into  their  original  waters  the  rivers  that  have 
already  become  one." 

^^  She  smiled  faintly,  perhaps  bitterly. 
"Doesn't  your  figure  of  speech  carry  you  too 
far?  In  our  case  the  judge  and  the  court  were 
only  incidental.  What  reaUy  dissolved  our 
union  was — " 

"I  know  what  you're  going  to  say.  And  it 
wu  against  the  letter  of  the  contract.  Of 
course.  I've  never  denied  that,  have  I?  But 
in  every  true  marriage  there's  something  over 
and  above  the  letter  of  the  contract— to  which 
the  letter  of  the  contract  is  as  nothing.  And 
if  ever  there  was  a  true  marriage,  Edith,  ours 
was." 

"Stop!"    Her  little  figure  became  erect.  Her 
eyes,  which  up  to  the  present  he  had  been  com- 
paring to  forget-me-nots,  as  he  used  lo  do,  now 
shone  like  blue -fired  winter  stars.     "Stoo 
Chip."  ^' 

"Why?" 


DANGEB 

"Because  I  ask  you  to." 
"But  why  should  you  ask  me  to,  when  Pm 
only  stating  facts?  It  m  a  fact,  isn't  it?  that 
oup  marriage  was  a  true  one  in  every  sense  in 
which  a  marriage  can  be  true,  till  other  people 
—no,  let  me  go  on!— till  other  people— your 
Aunt  Emily  most  of  all— advised  you  to  exact 
your  pound  of  flesh  and  the  strict  rigor  of  the 
law.  I  gave  you  your  pound  of  flesh,  Edith, 
right  off  the  heart;  so  that  if  atonement  could 
be  made  in  that  way—" 

"CUp,  wiU  you  teU  me  what  good  there  is  in 
bringing  this  up  now?    You're  married  to  some 
one  else,  and  so  am  I.    We  can't  go  back,  be- 
cause we've  burned  the  bridges  behind  ua— " 
"But  it's  something  to  know  that  we'd  go 
back  if  we  could." 
"I  haven't  said  so." 
"True." 

He  feU  silent  because  of  the  impossibaity  of 
speech.  He  made  no  move  to  go.  To  sit 
with  her  in  this  way,  without  speaking,  was 
like  an  obliteraUon  of  the  last  seven  years,  re- 
ducing them  to  a  nightmare.  It  was  a  shock 
to  him,  therefore,  when  she  pointed  to  a  dis- 
tant spire  on  a  hill,  saying: 


THB  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

"There'B  Harrow.    We  ihaU  be  in  London 
in  half  an  hour." 

In  London  in  half  an  hour,  and  this  brief 
renewal  of  what  never  should  have  been  in- 
terrupted would  be  ended  I    He  recalled  similar 
journeys  with  her  over  this  very  bit  of  line, 
when  the  arrival  in  London  had  been  but  the 
beginning  of  long  delightful  days  together.  And 
now  be  might  not  see  her  for  another  seven 
years;  he  might  never  isee  her  any  more.    It 
was  unnatural,  incredible,  impossible;  and  yet 
the  facts  precluded  any  rebellion  on  his  part 
against  them.    Even  if  she  were  willing  to 
rebel  he  couldn't  do  it— with  a  wife  and  boy 
in  New  York.     He  had   married   again   on 
purpose  to  satisfy  his  longing  for  a  child— 
a   family.      He    felt    very    tenderly    toward 
them,  the  little  chap  and  his   mother;  but 
he  was  dear  as   to   the  fact   that   he  felt 
tenderly  toward  them,  pityingly  tender,  large- 
ly  because  when  face  to  face  with  Edith  he 
wished   to   God   that   they   had   never   been 
part  of  his  life.    And  doubtless  she  felt  the 
same  toward  her  Mr.  Lacon  and  the  child  of 
that  union.    But  she  would  never  admit  it— 
not  directly,  at  any  rate.    He  might  gather  it 
in 


DANGER 

from  hinta,  or  read  it  betveen  the  lines;  but 
he  could  never  make  her  say  so.  Why  should 
she  say  so?  What  good  would  it  do?  Were 
she  to  confess  to  him  that  she  hated  the  man 
toward  whom  she  was  traveling,  he  would  ex- 
perience an  unholy  satisfaction— b  t,  after  all, 
it  would  be  unholy. 

In  the  end  he  could  find  no  simpler  relief  to 
his  feelings  than  to  take  down  her  belongings 
from  the  overhead  racks. 

"I'll  just  run  along  and  pick  up  my  own 
traps,"  he  explained,  "and  come  back  to  see 
you  properly  looked  after." 

Though  she  assured  him  of  her  ability  to 
look  after  herself,  he  felt  at  liberty  to  ridicule 
her  pretensions.  "You  must  have  changed  a 
great  deal  if  you  can  do  that,"  he  declared,  as 
he  handed  down  a  roll  of  rugs  strapped  with  a 
shawl-strap. 
"I  have  changed  a  great  deal." 
"I  don't  see  it.  I  can't  see  that  you've 
changed  at  all — essentially." 

"Oh.  but  it's  essentiaUy  that  I  am  changed. 

Superficially  I  may  be  more  or  less  the  same— 

8  little  older;  but  within  I'm  another  woman." 

She  took  advantage  of  the  fact  that  his  back 

us 


THE  LETTEB  OP  THE  CONTRACT 
WM  tuned  to  her,  m  he  disentangled  the 
handles  of  panuola  and  umbrellas  from  the 
network  above,  to  say  further:    "Perhaps— 
sbce  we've  met  in  this  unexpected  way— and 
tallted-poesiWy  a  litUe  too  frankly— it  may 
be  weU  if  I  remind  you  that  you'd  still  be  con- 
fronted  with  that  fact-that  I'm  another  wom- 
an— even  if  our  bridges  weren't  burned  behind 
us."    He  decided  to  let  that  pass  without  dis- 
cussion, and  because  he  said  nothing  she  added: 
"And  I  dare  say  I  should  find  you  another 
man.     So  don't  let  us  be  too  sorry.  Chip,  or 
think  that  if  we  hadn't  done  what  we  Aow 
done — " 

Though  he  still  stood  with  his  back  to  her, 
lifting  down  a  heavy  bag  with  a  black  canvas 
covering,  he  could  hear  a  catch  in  her  voice 
that  almost  amounted  to  a  sob.  Because  there 
was  something  in  himself  dangerously  near  re- 
spondmg  to  this  appeal,  he  uttered  the  first 
words  that  came  to  him: 

"HeUo!  Here's  a  thing  I  recognize.  Didn't 
you  have  this—?" 

As  he  stood  holdmg  the  bag  awkwardly  be- 
fore her  she  inclined  her  head. 
"One  of  your  wedding  presents,  wasn't  it?" 

IS* 


JU«    IMM9Di«tr  tut* 


WDojou  mean  that  you'll  see  me-late^when  we'. 


DANGER 

She  found  voice  to  say:  "It's  my  dressing- 
case.    Mama  gave  it  to  me." 
"And  didn't  I  break  a  bottle  in  it  once?" 
She  tried  to  catch  his  tone  of  casual  reminis- 
cence.   "It's  still  broken." 

"And  isn't  this  the  bag  that  got  the  awful 
bang  that  time  we  raised  a  row  about  it  when 
we  landed  in  New  York?  A  silver  box  stove 
in,  or  soi^ething  of  that  sort?" 

She  succeeded  in  smiling,  though  she  knew 
the  smile  was  ghastly.  "It's  still  stove  in." 
"Gad,  think  of  my  remembering  that!" 
He  meant  the  remark  to  be  easy,  if  not  pre- 
cisely jocose;  but  the  trivial,  intimate  details 
wrung  a  cry  from  her:  "Oh.  Chip,  go  away!  I 
can't  stand  any  more — now" 

He  pressed  his  advantage,  standing  over  her, 
the  black  bag  still  in  his  hands,  as  she  cowered 
in  the  comer,  pulling  down  her  veil.  "'Now'! 
'Now'!  Do  you  mean  that  you'll  see  me— later 
— when  we're  in  Lotidon?" 

The  veil  hid  her  face,  but  she  pressed  her 
clasped  hands  against  her  lips  as  if  to  keep 
back  all  words. 

"Do  you  mean  that,  Edith?"  he  insisted. 
Her  breath  came  in  little  sobs.    She  spoke 
W7 


\  i 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

«  if  the  words  forced  themselves  out  in  spite 
of  her  efforts  to  repress  them:  "I'm— I'm  stoy 
bgattheRitz.    IshaUbetherefoi-forsome 
days— tiU— till— he  sends  for  me." 

"Good.    I'm  at  the  Piccadilly.    IshaUcome 
to-morrow  at  eleven." 

Before  she  could  withdraw  her  impUed  per- 
mission  he  was  in  the  corridor  on  the  way  to 
his  own  compartment;   but  at  Euston  he  was 
beside  her  door,  ready  to  help  her  down.  Amid 
the  noise  and  bustle  of  finding  her  luggage  and 
havmg  It  put  on  a  taxi-cab,  there  was  no  op- 
portunity for  her  to  speak.    He  took  care,  be- 
sides, that  there  should  be  none.    Shewasact- 
uaUy  seated  in  the  vehicle  before  she  was  able 
to  say  to  him,  as  he  stood  at  the  open  win- 
dow to   ask   if   she  had  everything  she  re- 
quired: 

"Oh,  Chip,  about  to-morrow — " 
'■At  eleven,"  he  said,  hastily.     "I  make  it 
eleven  because  if  it's  fine  we  might  run  down 
and  have  the  day  at  Maidenhead." 

She  caught  at  a  straw.    If  she  couldn't  shelve 

him,  a  day  in  the  country,  in  the  open  air,  would 

be  less  dangerous  than  one  in  London.    And 

perhaps  in  the  end  she  might  shelve  him.    At 

i« 


DANGER 

any  rate,  she  could  temporize.    "I've  never 
been  at  Maidenhead." 

"And  lunch  at  Skindle's  isn't  at  all  bad." 

"I've  never  been  at  Skindle's." 

"And  after  lunch  we'll  go  out  on  the  river- 
the  Clieveden  woods,  you  know— and  aU  that." 

"I've  never  seen  the  Clieveden  woods." 

"Then  that's  settled.    At  eleven.    All  right, 
driver;  go  on." 

^^  But  she  stretched  her  hands  toward  him. 
"Oh,  Chip,  don't  come!  I'm  afraid.  What's 
the  good?  Since  we've  burned  our  bridges—" 
He  had  just  time  to  say:  "Even  without 
bridges,  there  are  wings.  At  eleven,  then. 
All  right,  driver;  go  on.    The  Bitz  Hotel." 


'WSJi 


•  I 


PENALTY 

TTE  went  to  Berne  because  she  had  let  slip 
X  X  the  name  of  that  place  during  the  after- 
noon at  Maidenhead.  It  was  the  only  hint  of 
the  kind  she  threw  out  during  the  afternoons- 
four  in  all— they  passed  together.  He  forgot 
the  connection  in  which  they  came,  but  he  re- 
tained the  words:  "He  may  have  to  go  to 
Berne." 

He  was  between  them  as  an  awesome  pres- 
ence, never  mentioned  otherwise  than  allusively. 
His  name  was  too  sinister  to  speak.  Each 
thought  of  him  unceasingly,  in  silence,  and  with 
anguish:  but,  as  far  as  possible,  they  kept  him 
out  of  their  intercourse.  It  was  enough  to 
know  that  he  was  there,  a  fearful  authority  in 
the  background,  able  to  summon  her  from  this 
brief  renewal  of  old  happiness,  as  Pluto  could 
recall  Eurydice. 
It  was  the  supremacy  of  this  power,  which 

ISO 


PENALTY 
they  themselves  had  placed  in  his  hands,  that 
m  the  end  drove  Chip  Walker  to  wondering 
what  he  was  like. 
"What  is  he  like?"  he  found  the  force  to  ask. 
She  looked  distressed.    "He's  a  good  man." 
He  nerved  himself  to  come  to  a  point  at 
which  he  had  long  been  aiming:   "Look  here. 
Edith!    Why  did  you  marry  him?" 

"Do  you  mean,  why  did  I  many  him  in 
particular,  or  why  did  I  marry  any  one?' 
"I  mean  both." 

"Oh.  I  don't  know.    There-there  seemed 
to  be  reasons." 

That  was  at  Tunbridge  Wells-in  the  twilight 
on  the  terrace  of  the  old  Calverly  Hotel.    They 
were  sitting  under  a  great  hawthorn  in  fuD 
bloom.    The  air  was  sweet  with  the  scent  of 
It.    It  was  sweet,  too,  with  the  scent  of  flowers 
and  of  new-mown  hay.    In  a  tree  at  the  edge 
of  the  terrace  a  blackbird  waa  singing  to  a  faint 
crescent  moon.    There  was  stiU  enough  day- 
hght  to  show  the  shadows  deepening  toward 
i-ridge  and  over  Broadwater  Down,  while  on 
the  sk)pmg  crest  of  Bishop's  Down  Common 
human  figures  appeared  of  gigantic  size  as  they 
towered  through  the  gloaming. 

161 


ii-'lJi'-  >^: 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

Edith  was  pouring  the  after-dinner  cofFee. 
It  was  the  first  time  they  had  dined  together. 
On  the  other  days  she  had  made  it  a  point  to 
be  back  in  London  before  nightfs"-  but  she 
had  so  far  yielded  to  him  now  as  to  be  willing 
to  wait  for  a  later  train. 

"What  sort  of  reasons?"  he  urged. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said  again,  pensively, 
dropping  a  lump  of  sugar  into  his  coffee-cup. 
She  added,  while  passing  the  cup  to  him:  "It 
isn't  so  easy  for  a  woman  to  be — to  be  drifting 
about — especially  with  two  children." 

"But  why  should  you  have  drifted  about, 
when  you  knew  that  at  a  sign  from  you — ?" 

She  went  on  as  if  he  hadn't  spoken.  "And 
when  I  saw  you  had  dismantled  the  house  and 
other  people  were  living  in  it  —  I  couldn't 
help  seeing  that,  you  know,  in  driving 
by-" 

"But,  good  God,  Edith,  you  wouldn't  have 
come  back  to  me?" 

She  stirred  her  own  coffee  slowly.    "N-no." 

"Does  that  mean  no  or  yes?" 

"Oh,  it  means  no.  That  is" — she  reflected 
long — "if  I  had  gone  back  to  you  I  should  have 
been  sorry." 


PENALTY 

"You  would  have  considered  it  a  weakness 
— a  surrender — " 
She  nodded.    "Something  like  that." 
"And  you  really  had  stopped— caring  any- 
thing  about  me?" 

"It  wasn't  that  so  much  as— so  much  as  that 
I  couldn't  get  over  my  resentment."  She 
seemed  to  have  found  the  explanatory  word. 
"That  was  it,"  she  continued,  with  more  de- 
cision. "That's  what  I  felt:  resentment-a 
terrible  resentment.    Whatever  compromise  I 

thought  of,  that  resentment  against  you  for 

for  doing  what  you  did— blocked  the  way.    If 
I'd  gone  back  I  should  have  taken  it  with  me." 
"But  you  don't  seem  to  suffer  from  it  now. 
Or  am  I  wrong?" 

She  answered  promptly:  "No;  you're  right. 
That's  the  strange  part  of  it.  After  I  married 
—it  left  me.  It  was  as  if  old  scores  were  wiped 
out.  That  isn't  precisely  what  I  felt."  she 
hastened  to  add;  "and  yet,  it  was  somethine 
like  that." 

"You'd  got  even." 

She  shook  her  head  doubtfully.     "N-no.    I 
don't  mean  that.    But  the  past  seemed  to  be 
dissolved— not  to  exist  for  me  any  more." 
les 


THE  LETTER  i>F  THE  CONTRACT 

"ffm!    Not  to  exist  for  you  any  morel" 

"I  said  seemed.  That's  what  bewildered  me 
— ^from  the  beginning:  thing*;  T  thought  I  felt 
— or  thought  I  didn't  feel— for  a  while— only 
to  find  later  that  it  wasn't— w;, ,.':  «>."  She 
went  on  with  difficulty.  "F  ;i-  autance — that 
day— that  day  at  the  Park— I  thought  that 
everything  was  killed  within  me.  But  it  wasn't. 
It  came  alive  again." 

"But  not  so  much  alive  that  you  wanted  to 
come  back  to  me." 

"Alive — ^m  a  different  way." 

"What  sort  of  different  way?" 

Her  eyes  became  appealing.  "Oh,  what's 
the  good  of  talking  of  it  now?" 

"Because  you  haven't  told  me  what  I  asked 
— why  you  married  him — why  you  married 
any  one." 

She  turned  the  query  against  himself:  "Why 
did  you?" 

"I  didn't  till  after  you  did.  I  wouldn't  have 
done  it  then  if — if  I  hadn't  been  so — well,  to 
put  it  plainly,  so  damned  lonely." 

She  gave  him  one  of  the  smiles  that  stabbed 
him.  "Well,  then?  Doesn't  that  answer  your 
question?" 


PENALTY 
He  thought  it  did,  and  for  a  while  they  lis- 
tened to  the  blackbird's  song  in  silence.  It  was 
their  Ust  talk.  They  parted  at  the  door  of  the 
Rita  with  the  intention  of  spending  the  next 
day  in  Wmdsor  Forest— or  some  other  roman- 
tic wood;  but  within  a  fe^-  minutes  she  had 
telephoned  him  that  the  summons  had  arrived. 
Next  morning  she  left  for  Paris. 

And  so  he  went  to  Berne.    He  hadn't  meant 
to  go  there  when  he  said  good-by  to  her  at 
\^ctoria.    He  had  no  intenUon  of  following 
her  or  putting  himself  in  her  way.    He  had 
purposely  asked  nothing  of  her  plans,  or  so 
much  as  the  date  of  h«  return  to  America. 
He  had  not  precisely  made  up  his  mind  that 
they  were  parting  for  good,  but  he  was  too 
stunned  to  forecast  the  future.    He  was  stun- 
ned and  sickened.    He  was  stunned  and  sick- 
ened and  disconsolate  to  a  degree  beyond  any- 
thing he  had  thought  possible  in  life.    If  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  bit  of  business  that  had 
brought  him  to  London  he  would  hardly  have 
had  courage  enough  to  get  through  the  days. 
But,  the  business  coming  to  an  end,  he  was 
stranded.     There  was  nothing  to  do  but  go 
back  to  the  wife  and  child  whose  existence 

16« 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

he  never  remembered  except  with  a  pang  of 
■elf-reproach.  He  meant  to  go  back  to  them 
— but  not  yet.  It  was  too  soon.  Edith  was 
too  much  with  him.  The  fact  that  her  phys- 
ical presence  was  withdrawn  made  her  spiritu- 
ally the  more  pervasive.  The  afterglow  of 
their  days  together  couldn't  fade  otherwise 
than  slowly,  like  light  when  the  sun  goes 
down. 

So,  when  he  should  have  been  going  to  New 
York,  he  went  to  Berne.  It  was  not  really  in 
the  hope  of  being  face  to  face  with  her  again 
or  of  having  speech  with  her.  Even  if  she  came 
there  the  dread  presence  would  come  with  her 
and  keep  them  apart.  But  Berne  was  a  little 
place,  a  quiet  place,  restful,  soothing,  a  haunt 
of  ancient  peace.  It  had  struck  him,  on  former 
visits  there,  that  on  this  spot  ignored  by  the 
tourist,  who  changes  trains  subterraneously, 
consecrated  to  old  sturdiness  and  modem  wis- 
dom, serenely  heedless  of  the  blatant  and  the 
up-to-date,  a  bruised  spirit  in^ght  heal  itself 
in  c  seclusion  cheered  by  green  hills  and  dis- 
tant suowy  ranges.  It  was  such  solitude  that, 
in  the  fii.st  place,  he  sought  now.  If  in  addi- 
tion he  could  see  the  shadow  of  Edith  passing 

18« 


PENALTY 

by— no  more!— he  felt  that  he  would  soon  be 
inwardly  strong  again. 

At  Berne  there  is  a  hotel  known  chiefly  to 
wise  travelers— a  hotel  of  old  wines,  old  silver, 
old  traditions,  handed  down  from  father  to  son, 
and  from  the  son  to  the  son's  son.  Standing 
on  the  edge  of  the  bluff  which  the  city  crowns, 
it  dominates  from  its  windows  and  terraces  the 
valley  of  the  Aar,  Swift  and  unruffled,  the 
river  glides  through  the  meadows  like  a  sinuous 
ice-green  serpent.  Beyond  the  river  and  behind 
the  pastoral  slopes  of  the  Gurten  hangs  a  cur- 
tain of  mist,  which  lifts  at  times  to  display  the 
line  of  the  Bernese  Oberiand,  from  the  Wetter- 
horn  to  the  Bettfluh. 

It  is  a  hotel  with  which  the  learned  people 
who  sit  in  international  conferences  and  settle 
difficult  questions  are  familiar.  It  was  shelter- 
ing a  conference  when  Chip  Walker  arrived. 
Each  of  the  nations  had  appomted  three  dis- 
tinguished men  to  consult  with  three  distin- 
guished men  from  each  of  the  other  nations 
on  possible  modifications  in  the  rules  of  the 
Postal  Union  when  the  use  of  aeroplanes  be- 
came general  in  that  service.  The  distinguished 
men  met  officially  in  a  great  room  of  the  Bun- 

11  167 


MrCROCOPY   RBOIUIION    TEST  CHART 

(ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


la^l^ 


ST;         '65J   Eflst   Main   Street 

■^         (^'6)  ■♦aa  -  0300  -  Phone 
^^         ('16)   288-5989  -Fa. 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
despalast;  but  unofficially  they  could  be  seen 
strolling  along  the  arcaded  medieval  streets, 
or  feeding  the  civic  bears  with  carrots  at  the 
bear-pit,  or  reading  or  smoking  or  sipping  coffee 
and  liqueurs  in  the  fine  semicircular  hall  of  the 
hotel.    They    were   French,    or   Austrian,   or 
Russian,  or   German,  or   English,  or  Danish, 
or  Dutch,  as  the  case  might  be.    There  were 
also  some  Americans.    The  great  national  types 
were  more  or  less  easy  to  discern — except  the 
Americans.    That  is.  Chip  Walker  could  see 
no  one  whom  he  could  recognize  offhand  as  a 
fellow-countryman.    Three  gentlemanly,  jovial 
Englishmen  were  easily  made  out,  because,  in 
Walker's  phrase,  they  "flocked  by  themselves" 
and  in  the  intervals  of  sitting  in  the  Bundes- 
palast  complained  that  Berne  had  no  golf-links. 
They  also  dressed  for  dinner  and  dined  in  the 
restaurant.    A  few  others  did  the  same.    But 
the  majority  of  the  distmguished  men  preferred 
to  spend  the  evening  in  the  costumes  they  had 
worn  all  day,  and,  with  their  wives — there  were 
eight  or  ten  dumpy,  dowdy,  smiling  little  wives 
— were  content  with  the  table  d'hote.    Indeed, 
the  popularity  of   the  table  d'hote  sifted  the 
simple,  scholarly  professors  of  Gottingen,  Frei- 

168 


PENALTY 
burg,  or  Geneva  from  the  representatives  of 
the  larger  and  more  sophisticated  social  world, 
leaving  the  latter  to  eat  in  the  restaurant, 
a  la  carte. 

In  this  way  Chip  came  to  observe  a  man  of 
some  distinction  who  took  his  meals  at  a  small 
table  alone  and  kept  to  himself.     He  was  a 
man  who  would  have  been  noticeable  anywhere, 
if  it  were  for  no  more  than  the  dignified  gravity 
of  his  manner  and  the  correctness  of  his  dress. 
Not  only  did  he  wear  what  was  impeccably  the 
right  thing  for  the  right  occasion,  but  his  move- 
ments were  of  the  sedate  precision  that  never 
displaces  a  button.    As  straight  and  slim  and 
erect   as   a   guardsman,   he   was   nevertheless 
stamped  all  over  as  a  civilian.    From  the  lines 
in  his  gray,  clean-shaven  face  of  regular  profile, 
and  the  silvery  touches  in  his  hair.  Chip  judged 
him  to  be  fifty  years  old.    He  puzzled  the 
analyst  of  nationalities— though,  as  Chip  put 
it  to  himself,  it  was  clear  he  must  belong  to  one 
of  the  peoples  who  were  chic.    He  was,  there- 
fore, either  English  or  French  or  Russian  or 
Austrian    or   American.    There    was    a    bare 
chance  of  his  being  a  Dane  or  a  Swede.    When 
he  spoke  to  a  waiter  or  a  passing  acquaintance, 

169 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

it  was  in  so  low  a  tone  that  Walker  couldn't  de- 
tect the  language  he  used.  All  one  could  aflSrm 
from  distant  and  superficial  observation  was 
that  he  was  Somebody— Somebody  of  position, 
experience,  and  judgment— Somebody  to  re- 
spect. 

That,  perhaps,  was  the  secret  of  Walker's 
curiosity— that  he  respected  him.  He  would 
have  liked  to  talk  to  him— not  precisely  to  ask 
his  advice,  but  to  lay  before  him  some  of  the 
diflSculties  that  were  inchoate  in  his  soul.  He 
had  an  idea  that  this  man  with  the  grave, 
suflfering  face— yes,  there  was  suffering  in  his 
face,  as  one  could  see  on  closer  inspection!— 
would  understand  them. 

He  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  a 
Russian,  though  he  had  an  early  opportunity 
to  find  out.  As  he  stood  one  day  by  the  con- 
cierge's desk  the  stranger  entered,  paused,  spoke 
a  few  words  inaudible  to  Walker,  and  passed  on. 
It  was  a  simple  matter  to  ask  his  name  of  the 
one  man  who  knew  every  name  in  the  hotel, 
and  he  was  on  the  point  of  doing  so.  He  had 
already  begun:  "Voulez  vous  Men  me  dire—?" 
when  he  stopped.  On  the  whole  he  preferred 
his  own  speculations.    In  the  long,  idle  hours 

170 


PENALTY 

they  gave  him  something  to  think  of  that  took 
his  mind  from  dwelling  on  his  own  entangled 
affairs. 

He  counted,  too,  on  the  hazards  of  hotel  life 
throwing  them  one  day  together.  He  was  al- 
ready on  speaking  or  nodding  terms  with  most 
of  the  distinguished  men  whom  he  could  ad- 
dress in  a  common  language.  This  had  come 
about  by  the  simple  means  of  propinquity  on 
the  terrace  or  in  the  semicircular  hall.  He 
soon  saw,  however,  that  no  diligence  in  fre- 
quenting these  places  of  reunion  would  help  him 
with  the  stately  stranger  whose  interest  he  de- 
sired to  win.  The  gentleman  took  the  air  else- 
where. 

For  contiguous  to  the  terrace  of  the  hotel  is  a 
little  public  park  called  the  Heine  Schanze— 
haunt,  of  well-behaved  Bernese  children,  of 
motherly  Bernese  housewives  supplied  with 
knitting  and  the  gossip  of  the  town,  of  Bernese 
patriarchs  in  search  of  gentle  exercise  and  sun- 
shine. This  little  park  possesses  a  music-pa- 
vilion, a  duck-pond,  a  monument  to  the  Postal 
Union  of  1876,  many  pretty  pathways,  and  an 
incomparable  promenade.  The  incomparable 
promenade  has  also  an  incomparable  view  on 
m 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

those  days  when  the  Spirit  of  the  Alps  permits 
it  to  be  visible. 

Two  such  days  at  least  there  were  during 
that  month  of  June.     Glancing  casually  over  his 
left  shoulder  as  he  marched  one  afternoon  with 
head  bent  and  back  turned  toward  the  east, 
Chip  saw  that  which  a  few  minutes  before  had 
been  but  the  misty  edge  of  the  sky  transformed 
mto  a  range  of  ineffable  white  peaks.    The  un- 
expectedness with  which  the  glistering  spec- 
tacle appeared  made  his  heart  leap.    It  was  like 
a  celestial  vision— like  a  view  of  the  ramparts  of 
the  Heavenly  City.     He  clutched  the  stone  top 
of  the  balustrade  beside  which  he  stood,  seeking 
terms  with  which  to  make  the  moment  indelible 
in  his  memory.    Nothing  came  to  him  but  a 
few  broken,  obvious  words— sublime!— invio- 
late!—eternal!  and  such  like. 

What  he  chiefly  felt  was  his  inadequacy  for 
even  gazing  on  the  sight,  much  lejs  for  record- 
ing it,  when  he  became  aware  that  in  the 
crowding  of  people  to  the  edge  of  the  terrace 
the  stranger  was  standing  near  him.  It  was  an 
opportunity  not  to  be  missed. 

"fa,  c'eH  meneiUeux,  n'est-ce  pas,  mon- 
sieurf" 


PENALTY 

The  words  were  banal,  but  they  wonl.l  serve 
to  break  the  ice. 

"Yes;  and  it  becomes  more  marvelous  the 
oftener  it  appears.  I've  never  seen  it  „,ore 
beautiful  than  to-day;  but  perliaps  that's  be- 
cause I've  seen  it  so  manj  times." 

Chip  wa^  disappointed  to  be  answered  in 
Enghsh.  and  especially  in  the  English  of  an 
American.     It  brought  the  man  too  near  for 
confidence.     They  might  easily  find  thevnselves 
involved  in  a  host  of  common  acquaintances, 
a  fact  that  would  preclude  intimate  talk.    Had 
he  been  a  Russian  the  remoteness  of  each  from 
the  other  s  world  would  have  made  the  exchange 
of  secrets-perhaps  of  secret  griefs-a  possibili- 
ty.    Not  so  with  a  man  whom  one  might  meet 
the  next  time  one  entered  a  club  in  New  York 
Such  a  man  might  even  be. . . .  But  he  dismissed 
that  alarming  thought  as  out  of  the  question. 
Edith  wasn  t  at  Berne.    If  she  had  been  he 
would  have  seen  her.    He  would  not  inquire  at 
the  hotel,  nor  at  any  other  hotel;  but  he  knew 
that  m  so  small  a  town  he  must  have  had  a 
glimpse  of  her  somewhere.    While  it  was  con- 
ceivable that  her  husband  might  have  come  to 
Berne  leaving  her  elsewhere,  this  was  not  the 

173 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

sort  of  man  sl.e  would  have  married.  The  tvoe 
to  appeal  to  her  would  'e  something  like  his 
own — of  course! 

Nevertheless,  as  he  had  begun  the  conversa- 
tion   he  Mt  that  in  courtesy  he  must  go  on 

r\:  .  "'  f '  "^  ""'  P°'"""«  -'th  his  stick 
to  what  he  took  to  be  the  highest  summit  of  the 
range,  and  saying:  "I  suppose  ^hafs  the  Jung- 

The    stranger    moved    nearer    him.    "No 
you  re  too  far  to  the  west.     That's  the  Breit- 
horn.     There's  the  Jungfrau  "-he.  too.  pointed 
thfi""'-^^"*^^'^'^  '^  ^'^  ^'-^^  and 
He  went  on  to  indicate  the  Wetterhorn.  the 
Schreckhom.  the  Blumlisalp.  the  Finsteraar- 
horn,  and  the  Ebnefluh.     They  were  like  a  row 
of  shmmg  spiritual  presences  manifesting  them- 
selves to  an  unbelieving  world. 
For  the  moment  they  served  their  turn  in  help- 

'"f^  .  ^^y''''''  *°  '"''^■^"'^  °^  conversation 
with  his  fellow-countryman,  in  whom  he  had 
lost  some  interest  because  he  was  a  fellow- 
countryman. 

"You  know  a  lot  about  Switzerland,  don't 
you?    he  observed,  as  the  stranger,  still  point- 

174 


PENALTY 

ing  with  his  stick  and  naming  names-the  Sil- 
berhorn.  the  Gletschhorn.  the  Schneehorn.  the 
Niesen.  the  Bettfluh-that  impressed  the  imagi- 
nation with  the  force  of  the  great  white  peaks 
themselves,  resolved  the  panorama  into  its 
mmor  elements. 

The  stick  came  do.-n,  and  the  explanation 
ceased  I've  lived  a  good  deal  abroad."  was 
the  response,  given  quietly.  "You.  too.  haven't 
you? 

With  the  question  they  turned  for  the  first 
time  and  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes.    While 
Chip  explained  that  he  had  spent  his  early  years 
in  France  or  Italy  or  England  according  to  the 
interests  of  his  parents,  he  was  inwardly  re- 
markmg  that  the  gray  face,  with  its  stiff  lines 
Its  compressed  lips,  its  unmoving  expression,  and 
Its  stamp  of  suffering,  was  really  sympathetic, 
bomethmg  in  the  composure  of  the  manner 
and  the  measured  way  of  speaking  imposed 
this  new  acquaintance  on  him  as  a  superior 
Instmctively  he  said  "sir"  to  him,  as  to  an 
elder,  though  the  difference  in  their  ages  could 
not  have  been  more  than  seven  or  eight  years 
It  flattered  him  somewhat,  too.  that  the  man 
who  kept  aloof  from  others  should  maie  an  ex- 

175 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

ception  of  him  and  welcome  his  advances.  They 
parted  with  the  tacit  understanding  that  for  the 
future,  in  the  routine  of  the  hotel,  they  should 
be  on  speaking  terms. 

There  was,  however,  no  further  meeting  be- 
tween them  till  after  dinner  on  the  following 
evemng.  Turning  from  the  purchase  of  stamps 
at  the  concierge's  desk.  Chip  saw  his  new  ac- 
quamtance.  wearing  an  Inverness  cloak  over 
his  dmner-jacket.  and  a  soft  felt  hat.  lighting 
a  cigar.  There  was  an  exchange  of  nods.  On 
the  older  man's  lips  there  was  a  ghost  of  a 
smile.     It  seemed  friendly.    He  spoke: 

"You  don't  want  to  smoke  a  cigar  in  the  lit- 
tie  park?  It's  rather  pleasant  there,  with  a 
full  moon  like  this." 

So  it  was  that  within  a  few  minutes  they 
found  themselves  seated  side  by  side  on  one 
of  the  benches  of  the  terraced  promenade 
where  they  had  met  on  the  previous  day 
Though  the  row  of  shining  spiritual  presences 
had  withdrawn,  the  valley  was  spanned  by  a 
velvety  luminosity,  through  which  the  lights 
of  the  lower  town  shone  like  stars  reflected 
m  water.  The  talk  was  of  the  conference.  The 
stranger  spoke  of  himself: 

178 


PENALTY 
"I've  been  interested  in  tl.e  various  methods 
of  international  communication  for  many  years 
hi  fact  I've  made  some  sligl.t  study  of  them. 
When  the  authorities  were  good  enough  to  ap- 
pomt  me  on  this  commission  I  was  glad  to 
serve." 

"Quite  so,"  Chip  murmured,  politely. 
"It's  an  attractive  little  town,  too-one  of 
the  few  capitals  in  Europe  that  remain  char- 
actenstic  of  their  countries,  and  nothing  else- 
wholly  or  nearly  unaffected  by  the  current  of 
We  outs.de.  But,"  he  went  on,  unexpectedly. 
I  wonder  what  a  man  like  you  can  see  in  it- 
to  remain  here  so  long?" 

C^hip  was  startled, "but  he  managed  to  say 
I'ai-"^  that  I  see  anything  in  particular. 
"Waiting?" 

The  query  was  Derfectly  courteous.  It  im- 
plied no  more  than  a  casual  curiositv-hardly 
that. 

"No;  resting,"  Chip  answered,  with  tore,  i 
nrmness. 

"Ah,  it's  certainly  a  good  place  for  resting  " 
Then,  after  a  pause:  "You're  married,  I  think 
you  said." 

177 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

Chip  didn't  remember  having  said  so.  and 
replied  to  that  effect.  The  stranger  was  un- 
perturbed. 

"No?  But  you  are?"  By  way  of  pressing 
the  question,  he  added,  with  a  glance  at  Chip 
through  the  moonlight:  "Aren't  you?" 

"I've  a  wife  and  little  boy  in  New  York." 
Wtlker  answered,  soberly. 

"Ah!"  There  was  no  emphasis  on  this  ex- 
clamation  It  signified  merely  that  a  certain 
pomt  m  their  mutual  understanding  had  been 
reached.  "A  happy  marriage  must  be  a  great 
—safeguard."  ** 

The  tone  was  of  a  man  making  a  moral  re- 
flection calmly,  but  Chip  was  startled  again. 
It  was  h.s  turn  to  stare  through  the  moonlight, 
where  the  length   of  the  bench  lay  betwL 
them      He  felt  that  he  was  being  challenged, 
but  that  he  must  not  betray  himself  too  soon. 
Safeguard  against  what,  sir?" 
There  wa^  a  faint  laugh,  or  what  might  have 
been  a  laugh  had  there  been  amusement  in  it 
Against  everything  from  which  a  married  man 
needs  protection." 

Chip  would  have  dropped  the  subject  but 
for  that  sense  that  a  challenge  was  being  thrown 

178 


PENALTY 

him  before  which  he  could  not  back  down 
Nevertheless,  he  detern.ined  to  keep  f^  ° 

«un.  that  I  know  whut  ,.ou  .„ea„."  "  "°* 

The  stranger  seemed  to  examine  the  burning 
end  of  h.s  e.gar.     "Oh.  nothing  but  the  obru! 
thmgs-pursuing  another  man's  wife,  for  in 
stanc.^  A  man  who's  happi,,  rn.„i.-a  does't 

Chip  felt  a  curious  chill.     Who  was  thU  J 
and  what  the  devil  was  he  drilZr::' 

loffT  t  ir-^'"'  -b- knocking::^ 
ash  off  the  end  of  his  own  cigar:  "And  yet  I've 
known  of  such  cases."  ^ 

"Oh    so  have  I.    But  there  was  alwavs  a 

screw  loose  somewhere— T  .r,  "'^ays  a 

"uiuewnere    i  mean,  a  screw  Innao 

The  response  was  surprisingly  direct:  "That's 
what  I  hoped  you'd  be  able  to  tell  me." 
Ihen  you  don't  know,  sir?" 

don  t  know,  because  I'm  not  happily  „,ar. 

179 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 


"But  other 


ried."    A  second  later  he  added: 
people  may  be." 

So  they  were  going  to  exchange  secrets,  after 
all.  "But  you  are  married,  sir?"  To  clear 
the  air,  he  felt  himself  obliged  to  add:  "Hap- 
pily or  unhappily." 

"I  married  a  lady  who  had  divorced  her  hus- 
band."   In  the  silence  that  followed  it  seemed 
to  Chip  that  he  could  hear  the  murmur  of  the 
almost  soundless  river  below.    Somehow  the 
sound  of  the  river  was  all  he  could  thmk  of. 
Quietly  moving,  low-voiced  couples  paced  up 
and  down  the  promenade,  and  from  the  music 
pavilion  in  the  distance  came  the  whine  and 
shiver  of  the  Mattiche.    "In  divorce,"  the 
measured  voice  resumed,  "there  are  some  dan- 
gerous risks.    It's  a  dangerous  risk  for  a  man 
to  divorce  his  wife.    It's  a  more  dangerous  risk 
for  a  woman  to  divorce  her  husband.    But  to 
marry  a  divorced  husband  or  a  divorced  wife 
is  the  most  dangerous  risk  of  all." 

Chip's  voice  was  thick  and  dry.  "May  I 
ask,  sir,  on  what  you  base  your— your  opin- 
ion?" 

"Chiefly  on  the  principle  that,  no  matter 
how  successfully  the  dead  are  buried,  they  may 

ISO 


PENALTY 

come  back  again  as  ghosts.    No  one  can  keen 
them  from  doing  that."  ^ 

thil't^''"'^'!.  ^  P'"""""'  '^'  «"»*  you  held 
this  theory  when  you  married?" 

a  Zt/'"  '*  "^  "  *^'°'^'  ^  *^'^'*  ^^^'^  it  as 

Chip  felt  obliged  to  struggle  onward.  "And 
do  I  understand  you  to  be  telling  me  now  ult 
the  ghosts  have  come  back?" 

"Perhaps  you  could  as  easily  teU  me  " 
It  was  a  minute  or  more  before  Chip  was  able 
to  say.  m  a  voice  he  tried  to  keep  firmf  ««  ^ 

them  than-than  any  oi.e  else." 
"So  I  understand." 

The  brief  responses  had  the  effect  of  dragging 
h.m  forward.     "And  would  it  be  fair  tT^k 
why  you  say  that?-that  you  understand?" 
^^Jh.  quite  faxr.    It's  partly  because  you  ar« 

"Then  you  think  I  ought  to  go  away?" 

oughtn^^'^C^m::^    --'    --^^   - 
"I  came— to  rest." 

"I  don't  question  that.    I'm  only  struck  by 
by  the  long  arm  of  coincidence." 

181 


11 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

"That  is,  you  believe  I  had  another  mo- 
tive?" 

With  a  gesture  he  seemed  to  wave  this  aside. 
"That's  hardly  my  affair.  You're  here;  and, 
since  you  are,  I'd  rather — " 

"Yes?" 

"I'd  rather  you  didn't  hurry  away." 

He  rose  on  saying  this,  apparently  with  the 
intention  of  going  back  to  the  hotel.  Chip  re- 
mained seated.  He  smoked  mechanically,  with- 
out knowing  what  he  did.  Questions  rose  to 
his  lips  and  died  there.  Was  Edith  in  Berne? 
Had  she  seen  him?  Was  she  keeping  out  of 
his  way?  Was  she  being  kept  out  of  his 
way?  Was  she  suffering?  Was  it  through  her 
that  he  had  been  recognized?  The  fact  that 
he  had  been  recognized  brought  with  it  a  kind 
of  humiliation.  The  humiliation  was  the  great- 
er because  of  the  way  in  which  he  had  singled 
out  this  man  and  approached  him.  During  all 
those  days  of  studying  the  stranger  with  re- 
spectful discretion,  seeking  an  opportunity  to 
address  him,  the  stranger,  without  deigning  him 
a  look,  had  known  perfectly  well  who  he  was 
and  had  been  imputing  motives  to  his  presence. 
The  reference  to  the  long  arm  of  coincidence 
last 


PENALTY 

was  stinging.     Because  it  was  so  he  tried  to 
muster  his  dignity. 

"I've  no  intention  of  hurrying  away,"  he 
began;    "but—" 

"K  you  like.  I'll  put  it  this  way,"  the  meas- 
ured voice  broke  in,  courteously.  "If  you  have 
time  to  wait  a  little  longer  I  should  be  glad  if 
you'd  do  it." 

"Would  there  be  any  point  to  that?" 
"I  think  you  might  trust  me  not  to  make 
the  request  if  there  were  not."  He  added 
presently:  "It's  a  wise  policy  to  let  sleeping 
dogs  lie;  but  when  they've  once  been  roused, 
they've  got  to  be  quieted." 
"Quieted— how?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  that  as  yet.  I  may  have 
some  vague  idea  concerning  the  process;  I've 
none  at  all  as  to  the  result." 

Chip  was  not  sure  that  the  stranger  said 
good  night.  He  knew  he  lifted  his  hat  and 
moved  away.  He  watched  him  as,  with  stately, 
unhastening  step,  he  walked  down  the  prome- 
nade, the  Inverness  cape  and  soft  felt  hat  sil- 
houetted in  the  moonlight. 

For  the  next  forty-eight  hours  Walker  hung 
about  the  hotel  like  a  culprit.    He  would  have 


12 


183 


I  'I 

I 

'I! 


THB  LETTEB  OP  THE  CONTHACT 
other  Ws'  .,!,  "•"^'"  *  «°  ''-«y  ^Me  the 

undignified,  grotesque,  like  fhattf  ^°^*''*" 
tected  insole  bit  of /ill.'^dlr""'" 

'Perhaps  not.    But  I  WW      a   j  xi 
is  iU     Yon  «.„    ^    •  ■^^^  that  lady 

was  Ul  when  she  arrived  m  P.--    *         , 
ten  days  ago."  *™  ^™"  ^°don 

"Tl  T  she's  here." 

ficSS '"iS^s^'sh::?'^"^"-'"' --<'«- 

^,/       Uoes  she-does  she  want  t<^to  see 
"She  hasn't  said  so." 
"Has  she-said  a  ything  about  me  at  all?" 

181 


PENALTY 
"That,  I  think,  I  must  leave  you  to  learn 
later.    But  I  should  like  you  to  know  at  once 
that   I'm   not  keeping  you   here  without   a 
motive." 

The  stately  figure  moved  on,  leaving  Chip 
to  guess  blindly  at  the  possibilities  in  store. 

More  days  passed— nearly  a  week.  Chip 
spent  much  of  his  time  in  the  Heine  Schanze. 
noticmg  that  the  distmguished  stranger  fre- 
quented  it  less.  Idleness  would  have  got  on 
his  nerves,  and  Berne  begun  to  bore  him,  had 
It  not  been  for  the  knowledge  that  he  was 
mider  the  same  roof  with  Edith.  That  gave 
him  patience.  It  was  the  kind  of  comfort  a 
man  or  a  woman  £  is  in  being  near  the  prison 
where  some  loved  one  is  shut  up  in  a  cell. 

It  was  again  an  afternoon  when  the  shining 
spiritual  presences  were  making  themselves  vis- 
ible—not with  the  gleaming  suddenness  with 
which  they  had  appeared  ten  days  before,  but 
slowly,  with  vague  wonders,  as  if  finding  it  hard 
to  bring  themselves  within  mortal  ken.  Round- 
ing the  comer  of  the  promenade  at  the  end  re- 
mote from  the  hotel,  at  a  point  from  which  he 
had  the  whole  line  of  the  bluflf  and  the  green 
depths  of  the  valley  and  the  slopes  of  the  Gur- 
las 


I 


PI 
m 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTBACT 

^b"^f;  Trt  ''  ^'"^•^  "^^  -  «"«  «- 

bZrf  f,*^'  ^*  '*'^  *  «^*  '^'''t^  Moulder 
b«mg  .tself  luminously  b  the  eastern  sk" 

For  long  mmutes  that  was  all.    It  might  have 

been^one^ofthegat.ofpearlofwhich\e'h:d" 

earth-dweller  could  take  his  eyes.    He  stood 
-..g^onh^stick  his  cigar  smoldering  b^ 

Wted  or  that  the  mists  rolled  away,  he  only 
«rew  aware  that  what  seemed  like  a  gal  £ 
-me  a  bastion,  and  what  seemed  like  a  b^on 

in  the  nudst  of  the  tower  and  round  about  the 

Nothmg  had  happened  that  he  could  define 
beyond  a  heightening  of  his  own  capa.;rto 
see  Nothingonthathorizonseemedtoeige 
or  to  recede:  looking  wrought  the  wonder;  £ 
«^er^w  or  he  didn't  see;   and  Just  no;  he 

or  read-he  had  forgotten  where:  "Immediate 
Jl^there  fell  from  his  eyes  as  it  had  been  sLTs  » 

sntit'  r"'"''"'*  ""'^  "^^  P'^^^^'  ^J^ae  the 
spiritual  presences  ranged  themselves  slowly 


m 


PENALTY 

within  hb  vision — row  upon  row,  peak  upon 
peak,  dome  upon  dome,  serried,  ghostly — white 
against  a  white  sity,  white  in  white  air. 

He  withdrew  his  gaze  only  because  the  peo- 
ple, ever  eager  for  this  spectacle  which  they 
had  seen  all  their  lives,  crowded  to  the  parapet. 
As  the  children  were  still  in  school,  it  was  a 
quiet  throng,  elderly  and  sedate.  Leaning  on 
the  balustrade,  all  faces  turned  one  way,  they 
fringed  the  promenade,  leaving  the  broad,  paved 
spaces  empty. 

For  this  reason  Chip's  eye  caught  the  more 
quickly  at  the  other  end  of  the  terrace  the 
figures  of  a  man  and  a  woman  who  stood  back 
from  the  line  of  gazers.  They  were  almost  in 
profile  toward  himself,  the  man's  erect,  stately 
form  allowing  the  fact  that  a  woman  was  cling- 
ing to  his  arm  to  be  just  perceptible.  It  re- 
quired no  such  movement  as  that  of  a  few  min- 
utes later — a  movement  by  which  the  woman 
came  more  fully  into  view — for  Chip  to  recog- 
nize Edith. 

Hia  Edith,  his  wife,  clinging  to  another  man's 
arm,  clinging  to  her  husband's  arm,  clinging  to 
the  arm  of  a  husband  who  was  not  himself, 
dependent  on  him,  supported  by  him,  possessed 


THE  „„,,  „  ^^^  CONTRACT 

J«  forehead  like  a^l  d!  r^bur^'.^ 
drew  it  quickly.    His  f„,  T  J  ^  '"*'*- 

"w  now  that,  in  aU  tt  A  ''^'^''"^^-    He 
had  heard  «h  ""^  y^"«  "''nee  he 

-«  What  wa.rl'1  rveX*"'"  '^"^^- 
his  own  success  in  wL  !7  "J^P^^^^'P^ 
at  a  distanee-6,r*T7.^^  '^'■"'^^"'  ^'^^ 

like  this-this  JZ       *f    '*  ^""^  *°  l'>°' 

-^o"witht5:r:^^t^^-^oei- 

upon  him.  "^'  dependence 

His  first  impulse  was  to  set  out  of  tJ.  •     •  ,. 


PENALTY 

grasp  the  appalling  fact  in  silence  and  seclusion. 
Second  thoughts  reminded  him  that  there  was 
a  situation  to  be  faced  and  that  he  might  as 
well  face  it  now  as  at  any  other  time.  What 
sort  of  situation  it  would  be  he  couldn't  guess; 
but  he  was  sure  that  behind  the  immobile  mask 
of  the  other  man's  grave  face  there  was  some- 
thing that  would  be  worth  the  penetration.  He 
would  give  him  a  chance.  He  would  go  for- 
ward to  meet  them.  No,  he  wouldn't  go  for- 
ward to  meet  them;  he  would  wait  for  them 
where  he  stood.  No,  he  wouldn't  wait  for 
them  where  be  stood;  he  would  slip  into  the 
little  rotunda  close  beside  him— a  little  rotunda 
generally  occupied  by  motherly  Bernese  women, 
but  which  for  the  moment  the  commanding 
spectacle  outside  had  emptied. 

It  wa3  a  little  open  rotunda,  with  seats  all 
round  and  a  rude  table  in  the  middle.  In  sit- 
ting down  he  placed  himself  as  nearly  as  pos- 
sible in  full  view,  but  with  his  face  toward  the 
mountains.  It  gave  him  a  preoccupied  air  to 
be  seen  relighting  his  cigar.  It  was  thus  op- 
tional with  the  couple  who  began  to  advance 
along  the  promenade  to  pass  him  by  or  to 
pause  and  address  him. 

188 


'11  I 


T£:e  letter  of  the  contract 

.pp''^r'"*''"^'"""-«'^'"  their 
"Chip—" 

He  turned.  Edith  was  standing  in  the  door- 
way, the  n.an  behind  her.  ThehlggardX 
of  her  face  and  the  feverishness  of  her  eyes  re- 
m-ded  Chip  of  the  coming  little  Tolw^ 
bom.    He  was  on  his  feet-silent.    He  couldn't 

sT    '""'.' \" '"""•'•    It --timeless  nZ- 
"^'^V^'' ''«"««  h«tened  to  speak: 

I  Jau-'        ^^°  ^''°'"'  ^*  ">«* «  England. 

want  h,m  not  to  know.    And  now  he  wants  us 
all  to  meet-I  don't  know  why  " 

the  first  words  that  came  to  him:  "Was  there 

Th         vu"""""^«^   Mr.Laconkno^ 
we  have  chddren-_^d  things  to  talk  over." 

"If?         "°T  .^"^^  *^'*'"  ^''^  *""«^'  ««tedly. 
it^Lr?    '^-''^"-^-butlknoi 

He  looked  puzzled.    "Mor«  in  what  way?" 

More  m  this  way."  said  the  measured  voice. 

that  had  lost  no  shade  of  its  self^ntrol.     "I 

understand  that  Edith  feels  she  has  made  a 

m.take-that  you've  both  made  a  misSel'- 

ISO 


CT 
leir 


lor 
•e- 
aa 
I't 


gdith  was  standing  in  the  doorway,  the  man  behind 
■«-•  iier.      Chip,  Mr.  Lacon  linows  we  met  in  England." 


behind 
gland." 


PENALTY 

"I  never  said  so,"  she  intemipted,  hur- 
riedly. 

Lacon  smiled,  as  nearly  as  his  saddened  face 
could  smile.  "I  didn't  say  you  said  so.»he  cor- 
rected.genUy.  "I  said  I  understood.  There's 
a  di£ference.  And,  since  I  do  understand,  I  feel 
it  right  to  o£fer  you— to  offer  you  both—" 

Exhaustion  compeUed  her  to  drop  into  a 
seat.    "What  are  you  going  to  say?" 

"Nothing  that  can  hurt  you,  I  hope— or— 
or  Mr.  Walker,  either.  Suppose  we  all  sit  down  ?" 
He  foUowed  his  own  suggestion  with  a  dig- 
nity almost  serene.  Chip  took  mechanically 
the  seat  from  which  he  had  just  risen.  It  of- 
fered him  the  resource  of  looking  more  directly 
at  the  range  of  glistening  peaks  than  at  either 
of  his  two  companions. 

"The  point  for  our  consideration  is  this," 
Lacon  resumed,  as  calmly  as  if  he  were  taking 
part  in  a  meeting  at  the  Bundespalast.  "Ad- 
mitting that  you've  both  made  a  mistake,  is 
there  any  possibility  of  retracing  your  steps?— 
or  must  you  go  on  paying  the  penalty?" 

Chip  spoke  without  turning  his  eyes  from 
the  mountains:  "What  do  you  mean  by- 
the  penalty?" 

IM 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

"I  suppose  I  mean  the  necessity  of  makirg 
four  people  unhappy  instead  of  two." 

"That  is,"  Chip  went  on.  "there  axe  two 
who  must  be  unhappy  in  any  case." 

"Precisely.  There  are  two  for  whom  there's 
no  escape.  Whatever  happens  now,  nothmg 
can  save  them.  But,  smee  that  is  so,  the  qti«a- 
tion  arises  whether  it  wouldn't  be,  let  us  say, 
a  greater  economy  of  human  material  if  the 
other  two — " 

Edith  looked  mystified.  "  I  don't  know  what 
you  mean.  Which  are  the  two  who  must  be 
unhappy  in  any  case?" 

Chip  answered  quietly,  without  turning  his 

head:  "He's  one;  my— my  wife  is  the  other." 

"Oh!"    With  something  between  a  sigh  and 

a  gasp  she  fell  back  against  a  pillar  of  the 

rotunda. 

"It's  the  sort  of  economy  of  human  ma- 
terial," Chip  went  on,  his  eye  following  the 
lines  of  the  Wetterhom  up  and  down,  "that  a 
man  achieves  in  saving  himself  from  a  sinking 
ship  and  leaving  his  wife  and  children  to  drown 
—assuming  that  he  can't  rescue  them." 

"The  comparison  isn't  quite  exact,"  Lacon 
replied,  courteously.    "Wouldn't  it  rather  be 


nil 


PENALTY 

that  if  a  man  can  save  only  one  of  two  women, 
he  nevertheless  does  what  he  can?" 

Edith    still    looked    bewildered.    "I    don't 
know  what  you're  talking  about,  either  of  you 
What  is  it?    Why  are  we  here?    Am  I  one  of 
the  two  women  to  be  saved?" 

"The  suggestion  is,"  C  p  said,  dryly,  "that 
Mr.  Lacon  wouldn't  oppose  your  divorcing  him. 
while  my— my  present  wife  might  divorce  me; 
after  which  you  and  I  could  marry  again.  Isn't 
that  it,  sir?" 

The  older  man  nodded  assent.  "It's  well 
to  use  plain  English  when  we  can." 

Chip  continued  to  measure  the  Wetterhom 
with  his  eye,  "Rather  comic  the  whole  thing 
would  be,  wouldn't  it?" 

^    "Possibly,"   Lacon   repUed.   imperturbably. 
"But  we've  accepted  the  comic  in  the  institu- 
tion of  marriage,  we  Americans.    It's  too  late 
for  us  to  attempt  to  take  it  without  its  possi- 
bilities of  opera  bouffe." 
"But  aren't  there  laws?"  Edith  asked. 
Again  Lacon's  lips  glimmered  with  the  ghost 
of  a  smile.    "Yes;  but  they're  very  complacent 
laws.    They  reduce  marriage  to  the  legal  per- 
mission for  two  persons  to  live  together  as  man 

UT 


11  I}, 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

and  wife  as  long  aa  mutuaUy  agreeable;   but 
the  license  is  easily  rescinded— and  renewed." 
"But  surely  marriage  is  more  than  that,"  she 
protested. 

Lacon's  ghost  of  a  smile  persisted.  "Haven't 
we  proved  that  it  isn't?— for  us,  at  any  rate. 
Hesitation  to  use  our  freedom  in  the  future 
would  only  stultify  our  action  in  the  past.  If 
we  go  in  for  an  mstitution  with  qualities  of 
opera  bouffe  isn't  it  well  to  do  it  light-heartedly? 
—or  as  light-heartedly  as  we  can." 

Edith  looked  at  him  reproachfully.  "Should 
you  be  doing  it  light-heartedly?" 

"I  said  as  light-heartedly  as  we  can." 
"What  makes  you  think  that  Chip  and  I— I 
mean,"  she  corrected,  with  some  confusion. 
"Mr.  Walker  and  I— want  to  do  it  at  all?" 
"Isn't  that  rather  evident?" 
"I  didn't  know  it  was." 
Chip  glanced  at  them  over  his  shoulder.    It 
seemed  to  him  that  Lacon's  look  was  one  of 
Dity. 

"You  met  in  England,"  the  latter  said,  dis- 
playing a  hesitation  unusual  in  him,  "with 
something— somethmg  more  than  pleasure,  as 
I  judge;  and— and  Mr.  Walker  is  here." 

198 


PENALTY 

^^  "Yes,  by  accident,"  she  declared,  hurriedly. 
"It  was  by  accident  in  England,  too." 

'.J^^  r!^^^  ^^  ^*  ''^^  ^'^^  ^  Potest. 
Oh,  I  m  not  blaming  you.  On  the  contrary 
nothing  could  be  more  natural  than  that  you 
should  both  feel  as  I-I  imagine  you  do.  You're 
the  wife  of  his  youth-he's  the  husband  of 
yours.  The  ost  things  you've  ever  had  in 
your  two  lives  are  those  you've  had  in  common. 
That  you  should  want  to  bridge  over  the  past, 
and,  if  possible,  go  back — " 

"We've  burned  our  bridges,"  she  interrupted, 
quickly. 

"Even  burned  bridges  can  be  rebuilt  if  there's 
the  will  to  do  it.  The  whole  question  turns  on 
the  will.  If  you  have  that  I  want  you  to 
understand  that  I  shaU  not  be-be  an  obstacle 
to  the — to  the  reconstruction." 

"Don't  you  caref" 

"That's  not  the  question.  We've  already 
assumed  the  fact  that  my  caring-as  weU  a, 
that  of  a  certain  other  person  whom  Mr.  Walker 
would  have  to  consider-is  secondary.  It's  too 
late  to  do  anything  for  us-*ssuming  that  she 
understands,  or  may  come  to  understand,  the 
position  as  I  do.    Your  refusing  happiness  for 

199 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

yourselves  in  order  to  stand  by  us,  or  ever  to 
stand  by  the  children — the  younger  children,  I 
mean — wouldn't  do  us  any  good.  On  the  con- 
trary, as  far  as  I'm  concerned,  if  there  could  be 
any  such  thing  as  mitigation — " 

He  broke  off.  Seeing  the  immobile  features 
swept  as  by  convulsion.  Chip  took  up  the  sen- 
tence: "It  would  be  that  Edith  should  feel 
free." 

"Precisely." 

"And  her  not  feeling  free  would  involve  the 
continuance  of — ^the  penalty." 

"In  its  extreme  form."  He  regained  control 
of  himself.  "That  the  penalty  should  be  abro- 
gated altogether  is  out  of  the  question.  Some 
of  us  must  go  on  paying  it — all  four  of  us.  in- 
deed, to  some  degree.  And  yet,  any  relief  for 
one  would  be  some  relief  for  all.  Do  you  see 
what  I  mean?" 

The  question  was  addressed  to  Edith  spe- 
cially. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  do,"  she  replied,  look- 
ing at  him  wistfully.  "Is  it  this?— that,  as- 
suming what  you  do  assume,  it  would  be  easier 
for  you  if  I— I  went  away?" 

"I  shouldn't  put  it  in  just  those  words.    I 
too 


PENALTY 

only  mean  that  what's  hardest  fo;-  you  is  hard- 
est  fo-  me.  I  couldn't  hold  you  to  the  letter  of 
one  contract  if  you  were  keeping  the  spirit  of 
another.    Do  you  see  now?" 

She  didn't  answer  at  once,  so  that  Chip  in- 
tervened: "Hasn't  some  one  said -Shake- 
speare or  some  on^that  the  letter  killeth?  It 
seems  to  me  I've  heard  that." 

"You  probably  have.    Some  one  has  said 

!  •      «  .  ?^  :^  ^^^'  ^  a  balancing  clause. 
The  Spmt  giveth  life.'    That's  the  vital  part  of 

It.    To  find  out  where  the  spirit  is  in  our  present 
situation  is  the  question  now." 
She  looked  at  him  tearfully.    "WeU,  where 

IS  It? 

He  rose  quieOy.    "That's  for  you  and  Mr. 

Walker  to  discover  for  yourselves.    I've  gone 

as  far  as  I  dare." 

"You're  not  going  away?"  she  asked,  hastily. 

He  smiled  at  them  both.    For  the  first  time 

m  Chip  s  acquaintance  with  him  it  was  a  posi- 

tive  smile.    "I  think  you'll  most  easily  find 

your  way  alone." 

"Oh  no.  Wait!"  she  begged;  but  he  had 
already  lifted  his  hat  in  his  stately  way  and 
begun  to  walk  back  toward  the  hotel. 

201 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 

Then  came  the  bliss  of  being  alone  together. 
In  spite  of  everything,  they  felt  that.  Edith 
leaned  across  the  rude  table,  her  hands  clasped 
upon  it.  She  spoke  rapidly,  as  if  to  malce  full 
use  of  the  time. 
"Oh,  Chip,  what  are  we  to  do?" 
He  too  leaned  across  the  table,  his  arms  folded 
upon  it,  the  extinct  cigar  still  between  his  fin- 
gers. He  gazed  deep  into  her  eyes.  "It's  a 
chance.  It  will  never  come  again.  Shall  we 
take  it?— or  let  it  go?" 

"Could  you  take  it,  if  I  did?" 
"Could  you— if  I  did?" 
She  tried  to  reflect.     "It's  the  spirit,"  she 
said,  haltingly,  after  a  minute.    "Oughtn't  we 
to  get  at  that?— just  as  he  said.    We've  had  so 
much  of— of  the  letter." 

"Ah,  but  what  ia  the  spirit?  How  do  you 
get  at  it?    That's  the  point." 

She  tried  to  reflect  further — ^further  and 
harder  and  faster.  "Wouldn't  it  be— what  we 
feelf" 

"What  we  feel  is  that—that  we  love  each 
other,  isn't  it?  — that  we  love  each  other  as 
much  as  we  did  years  ago — more! — more! 
Isn't  that  it?" 

80S 


■i. 


PENALTY 

She  nodded.  "Yes,  more — oh,  much  morel 
And  yet—" 

"Yes?"  he  said,  eagerly.  "Yes?  And  what, 
then?" 

"And  yet — oh.  Chip,  I  feel  something  else!" 
She  leaned  still  further  toward  him,  as  if  to 
annihilate  the  slight  distance  between  them. 
"Don't  you?" 

"Something  else — how?" 

"Something  else — ^higher — as  if  our  loving 
each  other  wasn't  the  thing  of  most  importance. 
I  thought  it  was.  All  these  years  — I  mean 
latterly— I've  thought  it  was.  When  we  met 
in  England  I  was  sure  it  was.  Since  I've  been 
back  with  him  I've  felt  that  I  would  have  died 
gladly  just  to  have  one  more  day  with  you,  like 
those  at  Maidenhead  and  Tunbridge  Wells. 
But  now — oh.  Chip,  I  don't  know  what  to  say!" 

"Is  it  because  he's  been  so  generous?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Not  altogether.  No; 
I  don't  think  it's  that  at  all.  Ee's  more  than 
generous;  he's  tender.  You  can't  think  how 
tender  he  is — and  always  has  been — ^with  me 
and  with  the  children.  That's  why  I  married 
him — why  I  thought  I  could  find  a  sort  of  rest 
with  him.  You  see  that,  don't  you? — without 
13  MM 


i  I 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

judsing  me  too  hawhiy.  He's  that  kind.  I'm 
'ued  to  it  with  him.  He  can't  help  being  gen- 
erous.  I  knew  he  would  be  when  I  told  him 
wed  met  in  England.  I  told  him  because  I 
couldn't  do  anything  else.  It  was  a  way  of 
talkmg  about  you-^ven  if  it  was  only  that 
way.  But.  oh.  Chip,  if  I  left  him  now  and 
went  back  to  you — " 

"Yes.  darling?  What?"  He  spoke  huskily, 
covenng  both  l,er  hands  with  one  of  his  and 
crushmg  them.  "D  you  left  him  now  and 
came  back  to  me— what?" 

She  hurried  on.    "And  then  there's-there's 
^  other  woman.     We  mustn't  forget  her. 
What  s  her  name,  Chip?" 
"lily.    She  was  Lily  Bland." 
"Yes,  yes;   of  course.    I  knew  that.    And 
she  loves  you?    But  how  could  she  help  loving 
you?    I'd  hate  her  if  she  didn't.     Curiously 
enough  I  don't  hate  her  now.    I  wonder  why? 
I  suppose  it's  because  I'm  so  sorry  for  her. 
She's  a  sweet  woman,  isn't  she?" 

He  answered,  with  head  averted.     "She's 

as  noble  in  her  way  as-as  this  man  is  in  his." 

That's  just  what  I  thought.    I  used  to  see 

her  when  she  came  to  our  house  to  call  for  the 

2tM 


ii:  I 


PENALTY 
children.  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  you'd 
n>«ny  her.  If  it  had  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  have-  But  it's  no  use  going  back  to 
that  now.  What  would  you  do  about  her. 
Chip,  if  we  decided  to-to  take  the  chance 
that's  opened  up—?" 

"I  don't  know.  I've  never  thought  about 
It.  I— I  suppose  she'd  let  me  go— just  as  he's 
letting  you  go-if  I  put  it  to  her  in  the  right 
way." 

"And  what  would  be  the  right  way?" 
"Oh,  Lord,  Edith,  don't  ask  me.    How  do  / 

know?    I  should  have  to  tell  hei— the  truth." 
"And  what  would  happen  then?— to  her  I 

mean." 

"I've  no  idea.  She'd  bear  up  against  it. 
She's  that  sort  of  person.  But  then,  inwardly, 
she'd  very  likely  break  her  heart." 

"Oh,  Chip,  is  it  worth  while?    Think!" 

"I  am  thinking." 

"Is  it  the  spirit?  That's  the  thing  to  find 
out." 

He  shook  his  head  sadly.  "I  don't  know 
how  to  tell." 

"But  suppose  I  do?  Would  you  trust  to 
me?    Would  you  believe  that  the  thing  I  felt 

JW6 


THE  LETTER  OP  THE  CONTRACT 
to^  right  for  me  w«  the  right  thing  for  u. 

"I  think  I  .hould." 

"Well    then,   listen.    If.   thi.   way.    You 

ll^^F'J  ''"'*  ^*"'-"  ^^'  ^'^  hi.  hand  now 
in  both  of  her..  twi.ting  her  finger,  nervou.ly 
m  «.d  out  between  hi..    "I  don't  have  to  tell 

SLifi  "T^""-  Oh.howIloveyoul 
It .  a.  If  the  very  heart  had  gone  out  of  my  body 

into  your,.    And  yet.  Chip-oh.  don't  be  an- 
gryl-it  «*ms  to  me  that  if  I  left  him  now  and 
went  back  to  you  I  .hould  become  wmething 
vile.    It  »n'i  becaui^  he'.  «>  noble  and  good 
No.  It  ..n't  that.    And  it  i.n't  ju.t  the  idea  of 
pawmg  from  one  man  to  another  and  back 
again.    We  have  turned  marriage  into  opera 
bouffe.  we  Americans,  and  we  might  a.  well 
take  It  as  we  ve  made  it.    It  isn't  that  at  all. 
It  .-Its  exactly  what  you  said  just  now:   it's 
IJ^e  a  man  swimming  away  from  a  sinking  ship, 
and  leavmg  hi.  wife  and  children  to  drown 
because  he  can't  rescue  them.    Better  a  thou- 
sand times  to  go  down  with  them,  isn't  it? 
You  may  call  it  waste  of  human  material,  if 
you  like,  and  yet-well,  you  know  what  I  mean. 
I  should  be  leaving  him  to  drown  and  you'd 

MS 


PENALTY 
be  leaving  her  to  drown;  and.  even  though  we 
ean'l  give  them  happiness  by  standing  by,  yet 
it's  some  satisfaction  just  to  stand  by.    Isn't 
that  it?    Isn't  that  the  spirit?" 

He  withdrew  his  hand  from  hers  to  cover  his 
eyes  with  it.  He  spoke  hoarsely:  "It  may  be 
I— I  think  it  is." 

"But,  if  it  is.  then  the  spirit  of  the  contract 
IS  different  now  from  what  it  would  have  been— 
well,  you  know  when.    Then  it  meant  that  I 
should  have  stood  by  yow— forgiven  you,  if 
that's  the  word— and  shown  myself  truly  your 
"^•fe,  for  hetter  or  for  worse.    I  didn't  under- 
stand that.    I  only  knew  about  the  better.     I 
didn't  see  that  a  man  and  a  woman  might  take 
each  other  for  worse— and  stiU  be  true.    If  I 
had  seen  it— oh.  what  a  happy  woman  I  should 
have  been  to-day,  and  in  all  these  years  in 
which  I  haven't  been  happy  at  all!    That  was 
the  spirit  of  the  contract  then,  I  suppose— but 
now  it's  different.    It  confuses  me  a  UtUe. 
Doesn't  it  confuse  you?" 
"Perhaps." 

"Let  me  take  your  hand  again;  I  can  talk 
to  you  better  like  that.  Now— nwo— we've 
undertaken    new    responsibilities.    We've    in- 

107 


THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

volved  others.  We've  let  them  involve  them- 
selves. We  can't  turn  our  back  upon  them, 
can  we?  No.  I  thought  that's  what  you'd 
say.  We  can't.  The  contract  we've  made 
wi'h  them  must  come  before  the  one  we  made 
with  each  other.  We're  bound,  not  only  in 
law  but  in  honor.    Aren't  we?" 

He  made  some  inarticulate  sign  of  assent. 

"And  I  suppose  that's  what  he  meant  by  the 
penalty — the  penalty  in  its  extreme  form:  that 
we've  put  ourselves  where  we  can't  keep  the 
higher  contract,  the  complete  one,  we  made 
together — because  we're  bound  by  one  lower 
and  incomplete,  to  which  we've  got  to  be  faith- 
ful.   Isn't  that  the  spirit  now,  don't  you  think?" 

Again  he  muttered  something  inarticulately 
assenting. 

"Well,  then.  Chip,  I'm  going."  She  rose 
with  the  words. 

"No,  no;  not  yet."  He  caught  her  hand  in 
both  of  his,  holding  it  as  he  leaned  across  the 
table. 

"Yes,  Chip,  now.  What  do  we  gain  by  my 
staying?  We  see  the  thing  we've  got  to  do — 
and  we  must  do  it.  We  must  begin  on  the  in- 
stant.   If  I  were  to  stay  a  minute  longer  now, 

108 


'M 


; recog- 


PENALTY^ 
it  would  be— it  would  be  for  things  i 
nized   as   no   longer  permissible. 
I'm  going  now!" 

There  was  something  in  her  face  that  induced 
him  to  relax  his  hold.    She  withdrew  her  hand 
slowly,  her  eyes  on  his. 
"Aren't  you  going  to  say  good-by?" 
She  shook  her  head,  from  the  litUe  doorway 
of  the  rotunda.    "No.    What's  the  use?    What 
good-by  is  possible  between  you  and  me?    I'm 
— I'm  just  going." 
And  she  was  gone. 

With  a  quick  movement  he  sprang  to  the 
opening   between   two   of   the   small   pOlars. 
Edith!"    She  turned.     "Edith!    Come  here 
Come  here,  for  God's  sake!    Only  one  word 
more." 

She  came  back  slowly,  not  to  the  door,  but 
to  the  opening  through  which  he  leaned,  his 
knee  on  the  seat  inside.     "What  is  it?" 

He  got  possession  of  her  haid.  "Tell  me 
again  that  quotation  he  gave  us." 

She  repeated  it:  "'The  letter  kiUeth,  but  the 
Spint  giveth  life.'" 

"  Good,  isn't  it?  I  suppose  it  m  from  Shake- 
speare?" 

KB 


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1   '1     ; 

:    1 

!            i 
\            i 

THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 
"I  don't  know.    I'll  ask  him— I'll  look  it  up. 
If  ever  I  see  you  again  I'll  tell  you." 

"I  wish  you  would,  because— because,  if  it 
gives  us  life,  perhaps  it  '11  carry  us  along." 

With  a  quick  movement  he  drew  her  to  him 
and  kissed  her  passionately  on  the  lips. 

A  minute  later  he  had  sunk  back  on  the  seat 
out  of  which  he  had  sprung.  He  knew  she  was 
disappearing  through  the  crowd  that,  satiated 
with  gazing,  was  sauntering  away  from  the 
parapet.  But  he  made  no  attempt  to  follow 
her  with  so  much  as  a  glance.  Slowly,  vaguely, 
mistily,  like  a  man  tired  of  the  earthly  vision, 
he  was  lettmg  his  eyes  roam  along  the  line  of 
shining  spiritual  presences. 


THE  END 


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